Glue and Duct tape
by Nemo et Nihil
Summary: A super spy and a super soldier. Both had seen and done things they rather not remember. They were both a little bit worn, a little bit tattered, a little bit broken and lost one too many people. Yet what glue and duct tape couldn't fix, love could. Even if its just little things, and it was the little things that mattered. Oneshot collection semi-connected
1. Arlington

**Captain America and Black Widow (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _November 11_

All cemeteries always had a melancholic ambiance around them. Even well-kept government funded ones. The rows upon rows of white headstones, laid out in an organized fashion, against viridian grass with colorful flowers at their base from visiting loved ones; picture-perfect postcard image. Every year the President would place a colorful wreath at before the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier; the Marines standing sentinel every hour of the day all year long. Even when it rained, like it was this afternoon.

Nobody noticed him. Nobody wanted to notice him. Dressed in jeans and an unremarkable grey t-shirt and a brown jacket. The grey ballcap on his head read _back to back world war champs_. Tony thought he'd find it amusing. He sat beneath a tree that overlooked the vast national cemetery. He didn't take his phone, didn't take anything that could be traced. Today he wanted to be alone. The rain wouldn't let up, soaking through his clothes and he began to shiver, but he ignored it. He took his cap off and brushed his wet blond hair back to keep the water from dripping into his eyes. Once the section of the cemetery he wanted was deserted he stood up and walked to a headstone and sat down in front of it. He traced the name and the date of death of the man he never met.

His father.

"Uh… hello… Pop," he said. "You… probably don't know this, but it's me… your son, Steve." He looked down at his pink hands, shaking due to the cold with rain drops speckling his skin. He clenched and unclenched his hands. "You didn't get to meet me because… you were killed. Mom took care of me though, until… until she died too. I turned out alright though. Hope she told you about me when she found you again in Heaven. Hope she knows how much I miss her."

He shifted his weight, the soggy ground squelching beneath him. The scent of mud and wet grass drifted up and he wiped the rain away from his eyes. "I joined the army, when the second world war broke out. I know the one before that was supposed to be the War that Ended All Wars." He gave a derisive snort. "That obviously didn't happen." He looked around at all the headstones. So many wars after and so many more yet to come. There was nothing noble in dying for a religion, an ideology, for a country, for another man… death always won in the end. No matter what men said about the outcome of wars, Death was always the victor. "I was selected for a secret project and… well… I became a hero."

The men he cheered up on his tour. The hope he instilled in everyone's heart. Now that… that was something to be proud of. Hope for a better tomorrow. He liked that. And when he finally got to the front, to fight. The men he saved. It eased the weight a little. "I became a hero to a nation. And I… I've done good things, Pop. Things you would be proud of. I… I stuck by my morals, like Mom said you always did and…" he bit his lip trying to figure out what else to say to a man he never met. "I hope you are proud of me," he whispered.

The sky darkened sooner than it normally did due to the weather and nobody really wanted to make him leave since it was Veteran's Day. He knew he'd have to leave soon, the cold was starting to get to him, and the rain, and the gothic gloom of the cemetery, and… the ache in his chest.

The rain suddenly stopped, the drumming of the drops on nylon canvas echoed around his head instead. He looked up to noticed the black umbrella over his head. He looked over his shoulder to see her. "Natasha, what are you doing here?" he asked, standing up with a grimace. His legs were stiff from the cold and sitting for so long.

"I followed you."

"Yes, but why?"

She gave a little shrug. "Felt like the right thing to do," she said. "Didn't want you to be alone."

"I wanted to be."

"Just because you wanted to be, doesn't mean you should," she countered, a half smile appearing on her face. He nodded, admitting her point was fair. "Come on, let's go before they kick us out."

"They wouldn't dare. I'm Captain America, and its Veteran's Day. Can you imagine the headlines that would cause tomorrow?"

"Yes." She began walking, taking the umbrella with her. He trotted a little to catch up, giving her a small smile when she held the umbrella over him as well. "Coffee or do you want to eat? I know a nice place that gives free meals to vets today, all you have to do is show proof."

"Does being Captain America count?"

"Maybe." She shrugged. "Worth a try."

He laughed. "Alright, let's go. I'm starving anyway." They left the cemetery and crossed the street before entering the city proper of Washington, D.C. He stopped, the crowd surging around them and not paying any mind; he grabbed her arm. "Nat—"

"Mm?" She looked at him, an innocent expression on her face. They both knew she wasn't innocent anymore. They didn't have the luxury of such things anymore. It was their cross to bear and they bore it gladly. So that others could have the luxury of innocence.

"Thank you."

She took his hand and gave his icy fingers a squeeze. "You're welcome," she said and let his hand go, heading off towards the restaurant. He gave himself a little shake and followed her into the rainy November night.

* * *

* **gently sets this down** *

 **Nice fans. Enjoy.**

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 **Nemo et Nihil**


	2. Ink

**Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanoff (c) Marvel**

* * *

She watched the snow fall, the traffic backed up all over New York City. She found it amusing because it snowed every year and every year it snowed. In the remote regions of Russia people still got around on sleighs either pulled by dogs or reindeer, the more technologically advanced ones had snowmobiles. She rolled her shoulders and sipped her coffee. December had set in, Christmas was approaching and she would take off during the holidays. Family wasn't for a woman like her, even if it was a mismatched family. She sipped the coco, it was creaming on her tongue.

She looked around the suit that Tony had given her in the Avengers tower. It was a nice set of rooms, like an apartment. She even had a ballet studio; it was generous of him. She sat on the bed, and continued to watched the snow fall outside, the white puffy flakes making her think of her childhood, before the Red Room, before the KGB took a sweet innocent girl and made her into a perfect killer. She drank in a marshmallow, smiling a little at the memory of Thor discovering you could put marshmallows in your hot coco. The next day he had tried it with mead, declared it at terrible idea and told everyone to stick with hot coco. Thor was the big brother she never had, Tony was the successful cousin that felt he had to prove something to others. Bruce was a good friend, Clint her brother and Steve….

There was a knock on her door. "Nat?"

Speak of the devil. "It's open," she called, hearing the door open and close. She could sense his gate, easy confident strides with just a bit of hesitation. He still was unsure how to talk to girls. She figured their friendship made it easier, less expectations to fulfill. She looked up at him when he stopped by the foot of her bed, in a wool sweater. "Cold?"

"I'm… not fond of the cold." He looked out the window, watching the snowflakes. "When I was a boy, I'd stand outside with my mouth open to catch snowflakes on my tongue." He ducked his head. "Until my mother yelled at me to get back inside otherwise I'll catch a chill."

"I did that too," she said. "It's peaceful almost, watching the snow. You get this sense of timelessness, as if the world is erasing everything from the pass year." She sipped her drink.

"Never thought of snow like that." He glanced at her, and she saw a kindred spirit in his eyes, just for a heartbeat. "May I sit?" he asked. She scooted over, the bed creaking a little and the springs gave a soft groan as he added his weight. She curled her sock covered feet into the carpet, cradling her mug in her hands. The silence began awkward but settled into something akin to comfortable.

The silence wasn't soundless; the whirr of the machinery within the walls, the clicks and beeps from corridors unseen. The muted honking of horns from the streets below. The sound of her pulse in her ears, the sound Steve made when he swallowed. She sniffed, took a sip and spared him a glance. "What brings you by?" she asked.

"I wanted to thank you," he said, "for Veteran's day."

"Oh." She took another sip. "You're welcome." She rested her hands in her lap, thumb running over the rim of her mug. "I enjoyed dinner."

"I did too." He shifted on the bed and pulled something out from his pocket. It was a green sharpie. She arched a brow.

"What's with the pen, Rogers?" she asked. If he was planning on giving her a sharpie as a thank you gift she'd laugh, and cherish it. He smiled.

"Lift up your shirt."

"Ah, you want to thank me _that way_ ," she said, a teasing glint in her eyes, she laughed when his ears turned red. "Why Rogers, I still haven't set you up on a date." Her laughter grew when he sighed deeper.

"Jesus Christ, Romanoff," he grumbled. She chuckled and set her cup down before hiking up her turtleneck. "Thank you," he said, his voice a little bit tight. He got on his knees. "Hold still," he said and yanked the cap off with his teeth. She sucked in a breath at the feel of his hand on her skin. She didn't dare look at what he was doing. She felt the tip of the market on her skin and frowned.

"Are you drawing on me?"

"Mmhmm."

"Why?" she asked, frowning when he didn't answer. "Answer me, Rogers," she growled.

"Becuff I vant foo," he said. She rolled her eyes and glanced down and only saw his blond head. Her frown turned to a smile as she smelled his shampoo, minty with some pine and the fresh scent of clean. He pulled back after a few more minutes and she got a clear look of what he had doodled on her skin. "Hello bikinis," he said and gave her that boyish grin she had come to associate with him being snarky. She gave an amused snort, looking at the four-leaf clover that covered bullet scar. "It'll come off in a shower." He snapped the cap back on.

"Thank you," she said, "that was sweet." She rolled her shirt down. "I didn't know you could draw."

"It's a hobby," he said. "When you kept getting beat up as a kid, sports weren't exactly an ideal hobby." He gave a shrug. "It's relaxing."

"You're good," she said and picked up her mug. She took a long swallow of her coco as he slipped the pen back into his pocket and stood up. "Leaving so soon? I thought you'd want to see me in a bikini now with your handy work on your hip." She laughed when he flushed again.

"No, I uh… have something else to do," he said. She nodded. "Maybe this… summer," he said and gave he a lopsided smile. She laughed.

"Maybe," she agreed, "maybe Tony will take us on an all-expenses paid for trip to Miami." They laughed together, the unnoticed shill in the room vanishing. She felt much warmer than before and she had an easy smile on her face. It was so easy to smile around him, to be herself and not have to worry about people judging her or silently thinking of her as a monster. It was so easy to be a person around him. _He only wanted us to be friends…_ He rocked on his feet before nodding to her and leaving. She picked up her phone and opened google.

* * *

She looked at the little four-leaf clover on her hip. The tattooing hadn't hurt at all, she had worse pain, even when the artist used a bigger needle to color the scar tissue. She didn't touch it, but ran her fingertip a hair's breathe over her new colored skin. She couldn't wait to wear a bikini that summer and see Steve's reaction when he noticed the little clover he drew back in December was still there. "Maybe next training session with him, I'll wait something low and see if he notices," she said allowed before pulling her shirt down.

She didn't believe in good luck or magical charms, but knowing that she had this on her body for her life, knowing that Steve put it there to make her feel better about a scar, well it felt nice. And she could live with that.

* * *

 **So… I ventured into fandom wank.**

 **Well it's not wank. It's just… I'm getting bombarded from all sides about how Steve and Natasha** _ **are just friends**_ **and well, I feel like I'm seventeen again, waiting for the series finale of Avatar The Last Airbender to find out if Zuko and Katara get together. It's not a pleasant feeling. So, what I did to help cope was write.**

 **The tattoo was originally going to be on her wrist but then I remembered her bullet scar. Plus, she doesn't have any topless shots, so… I can headcanon she has this little clover tattoo.**

 **As for time period, it's uh… irunno. I don't really concern myself with that too much. It's after everything. What everything is, is for you to decide. They just exist happily in my head.**

 **Save an author, leave a review.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	3. First Day of School

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

One of the highlights of living in New England, every autumn the leaves turned into a riot of color: gold and reds and orange, they crunched under foot and James had loved jumping into big piles of leaves, giggling as he crunched them in his small hands. The rain always caused the leaves to have that mulchy funk that she found so endearing, sometimes James would end up covered in leaves and mud, roaring and telling her how he's a leaf monster intent on eating her. Steve would jump in overly dramatic with a pot lid and a wooden spoon, telling her to run and save herself. She'd end up washing two sets of clothes and the lid and spoon after James effectively "slew" his father.

She cherished those memories. Laura had told her to hold onto them, keep them close to her heart because one day James will no longer be so little, so innocent. She had scoffed at the advice at the time, but now on this brisk September morning with mist curling around the mailbox's post and the dark brown drunks of the ancient trees, she regretted not taking more pictures, more videos, opting to delegate this mission or that mission to a more junior (but just as capable) agent. James was already five — almost six — and off to his first day of kindergarten.

The bus came at seven-thirty, classes started an hour later. Her alarm had gone off at six; the water in the bathroom was running and Steve was singing some Irish song loudly and badly off key (and his Irish needed some work, but she won't fault him for that. According to him the last time he heard the song sung by someone other than him, he was seven and it was his mother). She laid in bed, staring at the ceiling wondering where the time went. It felt like yesterday Steve was carrying her into the house with James nestled safely in her arms. She traced the scar along her lower abdomen. A difficult birth to finish a difficult pregnancy: James was breeched, something inside her tore, Helen said she almost died once or twice and everyone was afraid Steve would tear the entire hospital ward in the tower down to get to her; thank goodness Thor was there to hold him back otherwise things may have gotten dicey. In the end, both she and James made it out alright. "Are you going to lay in bed all day?" Steve asked, his voice muffled as he pulled on an undershirt. "It's James' first—"

"I know," she said, not bothering to keep the melancholy from her voice. She sat up and looked at Steve. It still amazed her that she even fell in love with him, considering her first was that he was a straight up boy scout. His old fashion chivalry (so dead in this day and age) was something that endeared him to her. He came over and gave her a kiss, his hands on either side of her hips.

"You should be excited. He's going to school," he said, though the excitement was absent in his own voice. "He'll learn things and grow up to be—"

"Captain America," she said, tapping his nose. "He told me yesterday that's what he wanted to be when he grew up. Captain America, just like Daddy." She grinned when Steve's ears turned pink.

"Ah… well, he… he can't be whatever he wants," he murmured and gave her another quick peck. "Do you want to get him or should I?"

"Go start the pancakes, I'll wake him up." She patted his side and he nodded, freeing from the delicious cage of his arms. He pulled on his pants and headed downstairs to make pancakes. "Remember the chocolate chips!" she told him.

"I know!" he hollered back. She smiled, pulling on her panties followed by some sweats and Steve's SHIELD hoodie. Fury had put her on administrative duty since becoming a mother. She chaffed at it, but he made a sound argument: James needed at least _one parent_ with a nine to five job. Steve was too valuable in the field, so that left her. As much as she hated it, as much as she wished she was alongside her husband taking out bad guys and saving the day, she accepted (and agreed to an extent) that her son needed her around and that this was the best compromise short of retiring completely. She sighed, thinking about asking Fury to put her back on light assignments now that James started school. She pulled her hair up in a lazy ponytail before going to her son's room.

James' room was still dark, he was snuggled in his little car bed, buried beneath his Captain America comforter. In fact, her son's room was a little shrine to his father. Posters of Steve, those wall decals of Steve, stars and stripes all over. She wondered if Steve was flattered or slightly disturbed with James' childish adoration of him. Another thing she was nervous about with school looming ever closer: James' pretense to brag to almost _everyone_ he meets that his daddy is Captain America and he's the coolest hero ever. It was okay around the team, and those who knew who his father was, but… this was a public school. Most of America didn't know their iconic hero was a father, let alone married (to an ex-KGB agent no less). They had worked very hard to keep their private life _private_. For their peace of mind and especially now, for James to have a sense of being normal.

She tiptoed through the minefield of action figures and Legos, kneeing down next to her son. He had the comforter pulled up beneath his small nose, his pale red hair mussed from sleep. He was almost the spitting image of his father, save for the hair, that was all her. "Jamie," she cooed, combing his hair, "Jamie baby, wake up. Daddy has pancakes and bacon cooking."

James gave a soft moan before opening his bright blue eyes. "Pancakes?" he asked. She nodded. "With chocolate chips?"

"He wouldn't make it any other way," she said. "You need to get up, it's time to get ready for school."

"School… _School!_ " James woke up then, throwing the covers off his tiny body and bounding about. "I'm gonna go to school! I'm gonna go to school!" he shouted, bouncing around his room. "I'm gonna go to school!"

"Yes, yes you are, but first you need to get dressed." She went over to his dresser and scooped up the clothes she had set out for him yesterday: a sky blue polo shirt, khaki shorts and white socks with a blue stripe at the top. "Come, time to get dressed."

"Okay, Mommy," he said and pulled his pajama bottoms off and she slipped on the underwear (she marveled at how adorable children's underwear was). Next came the shorts and shocks and he held his arms up over his head to allow her to pull his top off. She tickled his stomach and he fell into her arms. "Mommy!"

"Whatty?" she kissed his forehead, before putting his shirt on. She buttoned the bottom button, and then combed his hair, smoothing it down with some water. "Okay, go eat and no spilling!"

"Yes, Mommy," he shouted as he ran down the stairs, his footsteps thundering as he did so. She looked around his room, kicking the toys aside as she picked up his pajamas and made his bed. She picked up his colorful backpack (he had tried to get her to buy him a Captain America one but she refused) and put his school supplies in it before heading down stairs.

He was munching on bacon while Steve cut up the pancakes into bite size pieces. "You look… tired," he said, a smile quirking at his lips. She made a face at him before looking at her son.

"Can Mommy have a bite?" she asked. James blinked, before handing over his half eaten piece of bacon. "Thank you," she said, accepting it and popping into her mouth. She accepted the coffee Steve handed her as he set the cut up pancakes before James. "You think you gave him enough syrup?"

"I drizzled," he said.

"They're drowning in syrup." She smiled as she sipped her coffee. "You sent pancakes to their doom before they even got a chance to live."

Steve rolled his eyes as James laughed, mouth full of bacon and pancake. "Mommy you're funny!"

"Chew with your mouth closed baby, nobody likes your see food," she chided. He nodded and chewed with his moth close. Steve set a plate of bacon and pancakes in front of her too. "How come you didn't kill my pancakes with syrup?"

"Syrup." He set the bottle of syrup in front of her. She cut a slice of butter and put it on her pancakes and smothered them in syrup. James reached for the bottle she gave him a look. He pouted. Steve joined them, with a large stack of pancakes.

"How come Daddy gets so many pancakes and I only got two?" James asked, which prompted Steve to sacrifice a few strips of bacon to his son.

"Because Daddy needs to eat a lot," Steve said, "so he can continue to be super strong and super fast in order to save the world."

"Oh." James chomped on his bacon. "Will I need to eat a lot too?"

"Maybe." The small family ate in silence for a few minutes. She turned Steve's wrist towards her to glance at the watch. It was only seven, they had another half-hour before the bus came. "Now, James," Steve said, "you know you're special right?"

"Uh-huh. I'm super strong and super smart and I can jump really, really high!" He grinned. "Like you Daddy."

"That's right buddy and because you're like me, you have to be careful at school."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because the other kids aren't like you, and if you show them how… special you are they'll get jealous. And when people are jealous they do bad things."

"Is that why you go away some times? Because people got jealous?" James asked, he went to dunk his fork in his milk.

"Drink your milk, James," she said.

"But I don't like milk."

"Drink it, or you won't get a surprise after school," she said. He sighed, a pout on his lips and he looked at his father. Steve nodded and James heaved a world weary sigh and drank his milk.

"And yes, that's why I go away some times," Steve said. "So, while you're at school you need to pretend you're not so special."

"But Uncle Tony said that I should be proud of being special."

"Well, Uncle Tony is right," Steve said, "but you have to keep it inside and not tell everyone."

"So, I can't tell Mrs. Burke my daddy is Captain America?" James asked.

"Absolutely not," she said, bulldozing Steve and fixing James with a hard look. "You can't tell anyone at school what Daddy and I do. If you did it could get Daddy very badly hurt."

"Nat, you're scaring him," Steve said, as he slipped a hand beneath the table to give her knee a squeeze. "James," he said, his voice soft and calm. "Mommy's right about that. They don't need to know I'm Captain America or that your Mommy is Black Widow."

"What happens if I forget?"

"Well, if you… you remember all the people with the camera that like to try and get Uncle Tony's picture?"

"Uh-huh."

"They'll come here and try to get your picture," he said. James' eyes grew wide and the color faded a little from his cheeks. He had been caught in a paparazzi storm one day when Tony was watching him. He had nightmares about it for a week. Pepper had to some serious damage control to make sure James' picture didn't leak all over the internet.

"Okay, I won't say anything," James said.

"That's my boy," Steve said, reaching over the table to ruffle his hair. He gave her a wink as she finished her coffee. He hopped off the chair and went to the living room to play with his toys. She felt Steve staring at her.

"What?"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she insisted. Nothing was wrong, she had no reason to be wound up. It wasn't like the school bus was going to deviate from its path and shuttle her precious son into the jaws of their enemies. No, this was a good school. Laura's children went to it. If Clint trusted this school with his own family than surely, _surely_ it was good enough and safe enough for her own son. "I'm fine Steve. Did you call Bucky?"

"Yes, last night, he'll pick up James."

"Good. Good."

"I still think you should call Fury and get a sick day, you should be home for James when he gets back."

"I'll be home at five o'clock," she said, watching him gather up the dishes. "Did you make his lunch?"

"The school provides lunch for kindergarteners." He set the dishes in the sink. "Nat, this is his first day of school, first time being away from us with people that are effectively strangers. I know he knows Bucky, but… Bucky is his _uncle_ , you're his mother. There's a clear difference."

"You should be home too then, by that logic." She frowned when he looked away. "What? What are you telling me Steve?"

"Tony, Wanda and I are going to China. Terrorist cell and—"

"On James' first day or school?" she slammed her hands on the table and stood up. "Why didn't you tell me!"

"Because I at least could see him off. Look, it's not that… it's going to be a quick get in, get out."

"That's what you said about—"

"Don't," he growled, standing to his full height. "I'll be gone three days, _tops_. Bucky's staying on the couch—"

"You're going to have Bucky _babysit_ me? Are you saying I'm incapable of—"

"No, I'm not." He walked over to her and pulled her into a hug. "I'm sorry I sprung this on you. But you've been so wound up lately with James going to school, I didn't want you to worry. Bucky's just here to help out in case you need it. Plus, Sam said it's not good for him to be alone so often."

"But I thought, him and Darcy—"

"You met Darcy once, you know how she is."

"Yes, but—"

"If Bucky has a panic attack you can neutralize him," he said and pressed a kiss to her head. "Please."

"Fine." She looked up at him. "Be careful."

"I'm not gone yet. We won't leave until later this afternoon. You know how Tony is. Thinks the world revolves around him."

"I know." She gave him a kiss and pulled away. "James, time to go, get your backpack."

"Mommy can I—"

"No, you can't bring any of your toys," she said, "chop chop, don't want to miss the bus." She squeaked when Steve pulled her back against his chest and pressed a kiss to her nape. "Steve."

"Darling." He held her a bit longer before letting her go.

She sighed, she could still feel the warmth of his lips even as she stood here, clutching James' tiny hand. Steve held James' other hand, head bowed. She knew he was crying, because he had given her there is dust in my eyes excuse. James had looked between his parents, sighing in frustration as they waited for the bus. "I see it!" James shouted, pulling his hand from her grip to point at the clunky yellow vehicle that rumbled towards them. "I see it!"

"Yes," she said. "Stay with me and Daddy." She took his hand again, as the bus pulled up to their house. It stopped, opening the doors and the flashing stop sign extended. "Give Daddy a kiss."

"Bye son, remember what I told you about being special," Steve said as he accept the hug and the kiss from James.

"I will Daddy!" he said. "Will I see you when I get home?"

"Daddy has a business trip this afternoon, you'll see me in three days, but if I get a chance we'll video chat tonight before your bed time."

"Okay!" he said and looked at her. "Bye Mommy." He gave her a hug and a kiss too before heading towards the street. She gave a terrified and un-Black Widow squeak as her son headed towards the bus without her. She moved to go after him, but Steve pulled her against his chest. She watched as James stood on the first step. She felt the tears well up then, remembering the joy she felt at finding out she was pregnant, that she actually made it to the second trimester after three miscarriages, feeling him kick for the first time, holding him for the first time, his first words, first steps… first day of school. He was too young, he was only five, he still needed her.

"Let him go Nat," Steve whispered, "he has to grow up, do this by himself." He nuzzled her hair.

"But… but he's my baby," she said, her tears choking her voice. James waved back at them before greeting the bus driver and taking his seat up front. "He's my baby."

"I know, and he'll always will be, but you can't hold his hand forever. One day he'll grow up and inherit the shield. I can't be ground command forever."

"Steve—"

"It's okay, because no matter how big he gets, you'll always be his mother. You'll always have that special place in his life, in his heart. Nothing will ever take that away from you." He steered her back towards the house, walking with his arm around her waist.

She nodded and glanced over her shoulder, the bus had driven out of sight. The wind rustled and the leaves broke from their stems and drifted down.

* * *

 **It's… kinda fluffy?**

 **Hope you enjoyed.**

 **So, uh… Shuri and Helen but their heads together and fixed Nat's infertility issue, but even though she can conceive it was still difficult: miscarriages, false positives, and her actual pregnancy with James was very high risk.**

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 **Nemo et Nihil**


	4. The Visiting Privilege

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

It wasn't any sort of routine. Most of the time he went by himself, leaving after work and going down to the garage and leave without a word to anyone. Other days, days when things got to him she would be down there, leaning against her car with a knowing look in her eyes. "Hey," she would say and tug his sleeve. He'd comply and get in and they'd drive off in silence.

Today was one such day. Steve was having a rough day, it was the anniversary of his sacrifice and he kept replaying it in his head, she assumed that's what he was doing because he had a distant haunted look in his eyes. He was going to visit after work, and something in her told her that he shouldn't be alone for that. She never gone in with him, feeling that it would a breach of their unspoken stipulation about this little arrangement. She finished up her paperwork quickly, snagged her jacket and was down in the garage before him. "Hey," she said, offering him a small smile.

"Hey." His blue eyes were downcast, he walked slouched, shoulders bunching around his head. For a man that normally held himself tall and proud, he looked utterly defeated; and he walked passed her. She frowned reaching for his hand, deftly linking her fingers with his. "Nat—"

"C'mon." She gave a little tug, he resisted for a heartbeat before coming with her and getting into her car. They drove off in silence, he didn't like music on these trips.

"You don't have to do this," he said.

She glanced at him as she pulled into traffic. "I know," she said a smile on her face. She made a left, heading towards the nursing home. He reached for her hand though, squeezing her fingers so tight she winced, but she didn't tell him to let go.

The nursing home was white, beige and tried to project a soothing element. Yet, looking at it Natasha knew people came here to die alone without their families. Families dropped off their elderly relatives because they had no time to take care of them, to visit them or because they simply didn't want to. She parked beneath a tree, the branches providing afternoon shade. "Do you want—"

"No." He shook his head, staring at the sign and the staff with their elderly patients. He let go of her hand and got out of the car. She left it one, idling as the air condition pushed cool air through the car. She pulled out her phone and began to play Angry Birds. It was a good time killer, she liked blowing up the green pigs. She looked up when the car door open and noted the tears in his eyes and the tracks on his cheeks. She went back to her phone, finishing the round.

"Buckle up," she said as she put the car into drive. She heard his seat belt click and him sniff, wiping away his tears.

"She didn't recognize me," he whispered as she drove away. "The nurse said she's better in the morning but… she didn't recognize me."

"I'm sorry," she said, and made a right, heading towards the Slavic district of DC. She heard him let out another shuddering breath and then blew his nose with an undignified honk. She kept her eyes on the traffic and the signs gradually went from pure English to a mix of English and Cyrillic.

Parking lot was tiny, behind the rundown building, the back wall covered in graffiti. Only a few cars were parked, but there was always a spot for her. She befriended the owners soon after she joined Shield. They always left a spot for her. She parked and stepped out, drinking in that sour funk mixed with gravel, concrete, car exhaust and cooking oil. She could hear people talking in various Slavic languages, cars rumbling down the street, the coo of pigeons and the caw of a crow. "Hope you're hungry," she said as they walked to the entrance. He gave a mute nod, shuffling in his loafers with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He was shivering despite the heat and humidity.

The owners had saved them a spot in the middle, the decorations reminded her of Imperial Russia and Russian folk music came through the speakers. Shady fellows in the gloomy corner spoke softly, a few eyeing her but she gave them a viper-smile and they went back to their business talk. The waitress, a pretty buxom blonde gave them menus. Steve didn't pick his up, hands wedged between his thighs and he stared at it. She looked over the menu, gazing critically at the familiar dishes. She found her some singing softly to the song that was playing, remembering her childhood, before the KGB came and took her away. "Zharkoye sound good?" she asked. He gave a little shrug. She wasn't offended, she always ordered for him. The waitress came back with some water for them and she ordered: zharkoye for him and a borscht for her. "Steve?" she asked, nudging his shin with her foot. He just gave a dejected sigh and wiggled his foot away. It must have been a pretty bad one. She knew that Peggy had her good days and bad days, but most of the time she recognized Steve and was lucid for most of his visit. By the depressed body posture, she figured that wasn't the case here.

Their food came, and she had to nudge him again, coaxing him like a child, to eat. He methodically. She tried to inject some life into him, a bit of chatter, but he answered in monosyllables or just gave a dejected shrug. She finished first and had to urge him a bit more so he'd finish his food. She paid once the waitress returned to collect their plates and drove him home.

* * *

She walked him to his apartment door, giving Sharon a tight smile. She had spied on them having coffee once, and ever since then had made an effort to intervene between Sharon and Steve. Steve seemed to be oblivious to it, but Sharon knew how to take a hint. He unlocked his door. "Uh… good night," she said.

"Stay?" he asked, his voice soft and raw and broken by unshed tears. "I don't want to be alone right now." Another shiver ran through him. She smiled and nodded.

The inside of his apartment was chic and modern, not one hint of Steve (besides his shield, shoes and a few jackets) anywhere on the apartment. Everything was picked out for him, pre-made and manufactured by Shield. "I need to take you shopping," she said, realizing that the apartment didn't feel like a _home_. It felt like an apartment. A place where he came to sleep and little else. Small wonder he stayed at the office so late all the time. She wouldn't want to come home to an _apartment_.

"Why? I have furniture," he said.

"I know, but I'm not taking you shopping for that. I'm going to take you shopping so you can give this place more of a personal touch. So, it can feel like a _home_." She looked at him, watched the emotions dance behind his eyes.

"It's… alright," he said.

"Go take a shower, I'll put on a pot of tea and then we can watch a movie," she said. He nodded and went down the hall to the bathroom. Last time she was here, he had belted out an Irish folk song — off key and his Irish needed serious work — but this time all she heard was the water running and the kettle working. He came out a few minutes later, smelling like hot water and soap, dressed in pajama bottoms and a button up plaid pajama top. She pouted, standing on her tip toes as she brushed his hair to the side.

"Thanks," he mumbled as she pressed the steaming mug of tea into his large hands. She nodded and picked up her own mug, clinking it with his as she giggled softly. That got him to flash he a small smile. They headed to the couch and snuggled up, watching a Disney movie. Steve ended up dozing and when it was over, she turned the TV off and stood. "Where you going?" he asked in a sleepy voice.

"Home, it's almost midnight," she said. She always left after the movie. Always. It was an unspoken part of their unspoken agreement.

"Stay." He sat up a little more. "Please."

"Steve, I—" she watched him look away. He was so lonely, so broken, so _lost_ in a world both familiar and alien. The one link to his past — the woman he loved no less — was dying slowly as her mind withered away. He had no one.

And she had to be a jealous bitch and drive the one woman that _could_ and probably _should_ be here with him, away. "I can get Sharon?" she offered. He shook his head.

"Don't want Sharon," he said, "it's _weird_ between us." He looked at her. "Kinda like how it's weird for siblings to y'know…"

"Yep," she said, nodding. "I got it." She cracked her knuckles with a sight. "Alright, lemme go down to my car. I have a bag of clothes. I'll be back in a moment." She offered him a reassuring smile before heading down to her car and snagging her bag. She came back just as quickly and dipped into his shower. She didn't have a toilet tree of her own, so she used his soap and shampoo.

She finished and found him staring at a picture hung up on the wall. It was a generic picture of a bird. "I'm going to take the couch, if that's okay with you?"

"Yeah, it's fine. I'll get you a blanket and a pillow," he said and shuffled into his bedroom to get those things. She watched him make up a bed for her on the couch. "There you go," he said, "goodnight."

"Night, Steve," she said as he shuffled back to his room. She sighed, flopping onto the couch. It had a noticeable Steve shape divette in the couch. It broke her heart, realizing he slept on his couch most days. She wiggled, trying to get comfy enough to sleep.

* * *

She awoke to a loud crash from the back room. "Shit," she swore, grabbing the pistol on the table. Tiptoeing with the speed and grace of a ballerina, she pressed herself against the corner near his door. "Steve?" she called, there was no answer. "Steve, I'm coming in," she said and turned the hand. Leading with her weapon, she swiped from left to right before entering. The room was dark, empty. No sign of Steve, but the window wasn't busted open and his bed was rumpled as if he through the covers off in a hurry. Nothing. She lowered her weapon. False alarm.

Someone grabbed her pistol, tossing it aside only to shove her onto the ground. Steve loomed over her with wrath and terror darkling his blue eyes, lips peeled back in a snarl. The moonlight glinted off his shield, held over his head. "Steve! It's me! Natasha! Steve!" she shouted, feeling fear creep up her spine. "Steve, it's me Natasha! Your friend!"

He blinked, relaxing as whatever memory ensnared his mind faded away. All she saw in his eyes now was regret and sorrow and the profound sense of lost. "Nat…" his shield slid off his arm; it made a dull thud. "I… I'm so, so sorry."

She sat up and put a hand on his shoulder and when he didn't push her away she pulled him into a hug. "It's okay, I understand." She did. She had her share of nightmares too, waking up half asleep and attacking in the darkness, believing that the demons of her past were physically there. "It's okay. It's okay."

He cried into her shoulder and she crawled into bed with him, holding him and singing a lullaby to him. When she woke up the next day, she woke to see Steve's face, relaxed in sleep.

The next time he went to visit Peggy she went with him and when they returned to his apartment, she stayed. It felt more like a home now, with things he picked out, a few things from her place, and a few things they picked out together. And instead of watching a movie, they went to his room and she comforted him in a different way.

* * *

 **This feels a bit lit-ficcy to me.**

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 **Nemo et Nihil**


	5. Don't Do This to Me

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

It was all over the news. Every radio station she flipped through had reports going about the catastrophe over the Pacific: a hijacked helicarrier, Iron Man, Thor, Falcon, Captain America and the Hulk. The explosions as Iron Man and Thor brought the air ship down, the reporter gasping in surprise as Hulk leaped from the falling helicarrier, Falcon winging away. No signs of Captain America, though. "Shit." She slammed on the breaks, honking her horn. She hated New York traffic; bad enough the news reports were hours old, didn't matter that what the reporters were talking were not just some masked heroes but her friends and husband. None of that mattered to the faceless, nameless people around her. The guy in front of her didn't realize he cut of Black Widow, who was trying to get to the hospital because her husband was half-dead and going into surgery and she wanted — no _needed_ to be there to make sure he would make it, that he wouldn't die on her. Her thumb pressed the green call button. "Call Barnes," she said in a clear voice.

"Calling Bucky Barnes," the computerized voice chimed, light and cheery. She frowned, slamming her hand on the car horn as she bit her lip. As soon as traffic let up, she slammed her foot on the gas pedal, weaving in and out of the cars not caring for traffic safety laws. She could hear Steve chide her about it and James in the back laughing and saying how cool she was. Only both of her boys weren't here. She was alone in the car.

"Nat?" Bucky's voice came through the speakers.

"Hey, Bucky. I—"

"Have you seen the news?"

No, I haven't fucking seen the news! I'm just barely driving legally in my attempt to get to the hospital. "Yeah, I need you to pick up James from school. Take him home, order a pizza. Let him play with his PlayStation and make sure he does his homework."

"Surprise you're calling me, why not Clint?"

"Clint's outta town at the moment—"

"Was he on—"

"No, he wasn't thank God," she said, breathing a sigh of relief. At least one man in her life wasn't there, but Clint could still be in danger. She just had to trust him — she slammed her foot on the breaks, shocking the jay-walking couple.

"Eyes open lady!" the man called, his girlfriend flipping her off.

She rolled eyes, rolling down her window. "Hey, assholes! Use the damn crosswalk next time!" she yelled. The girlfriend yelled something at her. " _Yebanyye zhopy_." She drove off once the road ahead of her was clear.

"What was that about?" Bucky asked, amusement in his town. "Nat?"

"Damn jay-walkers, nearly ran them over." She rubbed her forehead as she drove. "Please, just—"

"Don't worry, go be with Steve. I'll take care of James."

"Thanks Bucky," she said, "I owe you one."

"Nah. What's family for, right?" he laughed. "Keep me posted, 'kay?"

"Will do," she said and hit the end call button on her steering wheel. She swallowed as the hospital came into view, fighting the tears. She pressed on the gas pedal again, making the yellow light, sliding into the parking spot as soon as the previous car left. She turned the car off and ran inside, flashing her badge at the people working there. Shield may be gone, but her status as an Avenger still opened doors for her.

She ran towards the observation room for the surgery, the doctors and nurses on this level knew her, knew where she was heading. She burst in, the surgery already underway. Tony was there, along with Fury. "Status?"

"Well, I'm fine. Y'know, a few scraps, Pepper will snap at me for getting hurt, but I can make up awesome stories to tell Howie and—" Tony stopped talking when she shot him a withering glare. He audibly gulped. "You know, you can be scarier than _my_ wife."

"Banner is fine, Wilson has a few broken ribs and a sprained ankle. Thor and Tony are fine." Fury sighed, jerking his chin at the operating room.

"Sam's suit was down. I caught him, hence the broken ribs, don't know how he sprained his ankle," Tony elaborated. She didn't look at either of the two men, eyes fixed on the doctors and nurses, on the man on the steel surgical table, the beeping monitors. She glanced as Tony's reflection joined her, he put a hand on her shoulder. "He'll pull through."

"Status?" she asked, trying to focus, trying to remember her training from the Red Room. Hell, who was she fooling, the Red Room never prepared her for any of this. The Red Room prepared her to shrug and move onto the next mission when something like this happened; to not care about anyone. It never expected her to marry anyone — let alone Captain America — and have a family, make friends, become the woman she is today. "Tony, what's his status?"

"It's bad," he said, squeezing her shoulder. "Guess it brought back memories when Shield fell or something. Three rounds to the gut, his entire left leg broken — they had to get Thor to rebreak his leg cause the bones were already healing on the way over — punctured lung, broken ribs, dislocated shoulder" — he pointed to the reinforced hand and ankle cuffs and the band across his forehead that strapped Steve down to the table — "concussion, he's out cold for the moment, but they don't know if he'll wake up and—"

"Hang in there, Cap, we got you," a doctor said and moments later a flat line appeared on the heart rate monitor. Her heart fell into her stomach, her hands covering her mouth.

"We're losing him!" a nurse shouted as the heartrate monitor began to beep in one single steady tone. She felt the blood leave her cheeks, her knees giving out, Tony's strong hands grabbing her elbows. She watched helpless as the doctors grabbed the defibrillator. "Clear!" they shouted, and Steve's body lurched upward. Tears fell from her eyes as she stood there, shaking. She tuned out their shouting.

"Don't… don't do this to me… please don't do this to me, Steve."

* * *

James new something was wrong at lunch. Howie was nice to him for a change, oppose to his usual snarky self. He figured that Aunt Pepper finally had enough for their little rivalry and put her foot down. He also assumed that Aunt Pepper had involved his mother in some form, so he knew he was going to get a good lecture on the drive home. So, for survival he went along with Howie's sudden kindness and didn't think much of it for the rest of the school day. He said goodbye to the Lang twins and gave Howie a nod and met up with Riley as they made their way to his locker. Riley already had his backpack. "Mom said anything about Friday?"

"Nah, not yet," he said, thumbing the dial on the locker. "Said I have to ask Dad."

"Y'know your dad is just gonna tell you to ask your mom, right?" Riley leaned against the locker, watching him as he struggled to get his locker opened. He grunted, biting his lip as he did so. Damn thing always got stuck. He reset the lock and tried again.

"I hate this thing," he grumbled, trying to lift the hatch. Riley put his hand on his.

"Whoa, Jim, let me," Riley said, "don't need the school asking your folks for money cause you broke the locker."

"Right." He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. Riley thumbed the lock. "And don't call me Jim." He hated when people gave him a nickname. His name was _James_ and people will call him that. Riley hummed and popped the locker open with a soft grunt. "Thanks," he said, looking sheepish.

"What would you do without me, eh?" Riley bowed. He laughed, grabbing his books and shoving them into his backpack and then his lunchbox. "Still carrying that around?"

"What? It has my dad on it," he said, shaking the metal lunchbox he had since first grade. "Still works."

"Just think you're a little old to carry it around, is all." Riley shrugged and closed the locker again, thumbing the dial. He smiled, running a thumb along the image of his father painted on the box. The rest of the picture was fading but he had slathered clear nail polish over his dad when he first got it. Of course, he had a regular lunch box, but he always used this one when his dad was on a long mission. It was a good luck charm of sorts, at least he liked to think so. Whenever he used it, his dad always came back safe and sound (maybe with a few more cuts and a couple more bruises and a bit tired, but alive and that's what mattered). "James?" Riley said.

"Right." He gave a nod and they headed down to the front of their middle school. Most of the busses had left, Riley's mom was waiting for him, a worried look on her face. James glanced at his friend. "What did you do?"

"Nothing, I swear." He seemed tense as they walked towards Mrs. Wilson. She rushed over and hugged her son. "Everything okay, Mom?" he heard Riley asked.

"Just fine baby, just fine," she said and ushered him out the door, he waved bye and James returned it. He frowned, his mother was supposed to pick him up today. They were going to go shopping and cook his father a welcome home dinner. Steaks with steamed mini potatoes and corn on the cob, one of his dad's favorite meals. Only her car wasn't here. He glanced at his watch, it was only two-forty-five, her usual time for picking him up.

"Where is she?" he grumbled as he pulled his phone out. No alerts or texts about change of plans. He unlocked his phone and was about to text her when he saw a familiar car. He let out a sigh of relief though a frown creased his lips. It was his Uncle Bucky's truck. He went out to it anyway. "Uncle Bucky?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"

"Get in kiddo." His uncle jerked his head to the empty passenger seat. James frowned, but walked around and got in. He was about to toss his bag into the back, but so his uncle's gear and gently set the book-laden backpack down between his legs instead, he set his lunchbox on his lap. He buckled up and his uncle drove off.

"Why're you picking me up? Where's Mom?" he asked. He was thirteen and understood his parents risked their lives for a living. It was their jobs as Avengers. Still, his parents tried to keep him oblivious to it. He hated it. He hated sitting around and doing nothing. "Uncle Bucky?"

"She's hold up at the office," his uncle said, turning onto the road and driving away. "Called me to pick you up. Any plans?" he asked.

"Mom and I were going to pick up steaks and some corn cause Dad's coming home. She wanted to make him his favorite." He watched his uncle grimace at that. He realized then that something was wrong, terribly wrong. He knew enough that Fury _only_ called his mother to do field work when only Black Widow could get the job done. Most of the time — and he knew she hated this arrangement — his mother was working intelligence at Avengers Tower or monitoring the operations and giving his father and the other Avengers intelligence to help them in the field. It had been like that since he was born. "Mom got the day off even," he said.

"Well, something came up, she has to stay late. Called me."

"What about Uncle Clint?"

"He's outta town, remember?"

No. Mom and Dad never tell me anything. "Oh." He nodded, watching the cars go by, the late September sun shining, the weather felt autumn-ish yet the sun clung to summer. He liked this time of year the best. Baseball was wrapping up and football was starting. Most of the time he could convince his dad to play ball with him in the backyard, which devolved into a wrestling match. "I've been able to pin Dad a few times lately. Like, really pin him, not him letting me do it."

"That's good," Bucky said. "Looks like you got all the good stuff." He ruffled his hair. James couldn't help but smile. Bruce had told him at his last physical that his strength will start increasing as he went through puberty. The prediction was he'll equal his father in strength and stamina and surpass his mother in agility and flexibility. Nobody was sure how Erskine's super soldier serum would interact with the Red Room's super spy serum. Every visit to the doctor's involved a battery of tests and blood work. So far, the serums had coexisted harmoniously, everyone was holding their breath now because puberty could send everything into disarray.

"Yeah." He gave a small smile. "We heading home?"

"Nah, going to my place," Bucky said, sliding into the left turn lane and flicking on his blinker. "We'll have pizza and soda. I'll help you with your homework and afterwards we'll play video games."

"On your Xbox?" James rolled his eyes. He was surprised how his dad and uncle took to video games. "I hate the controllers."

"I have a PlayStation, don't gripe," Bucky grumbled as they turned down the street and then made a right. "How's school?"

"Fine, getting As. Try to make a few mistakes here and there on the tests, don't want to show up everyone cause I remember things so easily." He picked at his fingers, before he started to bite his nails.

"Don't do that." His uncle pulled his hand from his mouth. "Your mom does it and it drivees your dad crazy."

I know, I picked it up from her. "She only does it when she's nervous." Just like how I learned to lie from her and a bunch of other little spy things she does without realizing it.

"Doesn't matter." Bucky turned onto his street and into the apartment complex's parking lot. His phone rang then, the caller ID coming up onto the truck's display dash. It said _Nat_. He reached to press the answer button when his uncle hit the ignore button.

"Whatcha do that for Uncle Bucky? That was Mom!" he looked at his uncle. Something was going on and his mom and uncle were in on it and trying to keep him out of the loop. "Uncle Bucky!"

"Here." His uncle handed him the keyring. "Go let yourself in and get started on your homework. I'll be up in a minute."

"Why can't I talk to Mom?" he asked. He wanted to know what was going on. "Is Dad gonna be late coming home? Is he hurt? Is he hurt bad?" His eyes widened. "Is he… is he dead?" he whispered.

"Course not. Your dad's Captain America, he won't die." His uncle threw an arm around his shoulders and pulled him into a hug. "Your folks are fine, bucko. Now do as I say, 'kay?"

James wasn't convinced, he swallowed his questions and nodded. "Okay," he whispered and exited the car, grabbing his stuff and heading to his uncle's apartment. The apartment was sparse and lightly furnished. It was a bachelor pad but with a frequently absent bachelor it wasn't a slovenly pigsty. He set his bag down, lunch box clanking onto the counter and sat at the small table his uncle had. He glanced at the closed door and fished his phone from his pocket. He turned it on. A picture of his parents stared back at him, the iconic Disneyland Castle in the background, Mickey and Minnie Mouse ears on their heads. That trip had been this summer; his dad didn't have any missions for Avengers' Day and the entire team with their families and one friend went for the week. He never had so much fun in his life.

He unlocked his phone and pulled up his contacts. He almost called his mom, but he had a feeling she wouldn't give him answers. He almost called Riley's dad but Riley's mom was acting harried when she picked him up he thought better of it. Uncle Bucky was not telling anything, and Uncle Clint was outta town. That narrowed his options down to one. He hit the contact and put the phone to his ear. It rang a few times before someone answered. "Hi, Uncle Tony."

* * *

She didn't know how to process it. Part of her was refusing to process it. This sort of thing happened to other _unenhanced_ people. This didn't happen to the world's greatest soldier. This didn't happen to her husband, the man that had once cheekily said: if ya get killed… walk it off.

This didn't happen to Steve Rogers. Yet, she couldn't deny facts. "… yeah…" she nodded, licking her lips and wiping her tears. "Yeah, Bucky… I know. Just… just don't tell James. He doesn't need to—" she stopped when she caught Tony's wild gesticulation from the corner of her eye. "Listen, Bucky, I gotta go. Tony's making weird gestures at me, need to turn him down gently." She quirked a weak smile when Bucky gave a weak laugh. "Bye." She hung up and turned to face the man behind Iron Man. "What?"

"Your kid's on the phone," Tony said. She closed her eyes, she didn't know what to tell James. Sometimes her son was too much like his father: impulsive, keen on doing the right thing, blaming himself for things that weren't his fault, that annoying inability to wait. "Natasha?"

"Gimme your phone." She held out her hand and Tony put the device in her hand. "Hey, Jamie, what's up sweetie?" she asked, her voice syrupy sweet. He was getting to the age where her fake calm wasn't fooling him. "Uh-huh. Yeah, you'll be staying with Uncle Bucky for the afternoon, I'll pick you up once I'm done… no, no, nothing's wrong. Everything's fi—" she frowned. "Because I have some things to take care of here and I couldn't pick you up… Dad won't be home tonight." Don't ask why, don't ask why, _don't ask why_. She clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Dad's mission is taking a bit longer."

"Natasha, he called me and I answered. He's not gonna buy that," Tony hissed, she shot him a glare. He swallowed and rubbed the back of his head. Tony was right, James didn't buy it and pressed her for information. She didn't have time or energy to deal with this. She refused to let her son see his father like this. He wasn't old enough to see his father half-dead, hooked up to tubes that fed him and breathed for him, monitors beeping the only tell that he was still fucking _alive_.

No.

Even for a thirteen-year-old, she would not let him see his father like this. She will protect him. "James, listen to me," she said, her tone turning icy sharp. "You'll stay with Uncle Bucky for the night if need be and tomorrow you'll go to school. Nothing is wrong. Dad's mission is just a little bumpy at the moment. That's why I'm still at work. I'll call when I can." She sighed when he protested. "James Aleksander…" she smirked when he shut up. "I love you, baby," she said and smiled when he returned the sentiment. "Bye." She hung up the phone and handed it back to Tony.

"You can't protect him forever. What if it happens again and he sees it on the news? Sees his father getting blown thirty feet into the air over the damn Pacific?" Tony said, pointing at Steve in the bed. The room was empty save for the doctors and the machines. She couldn't go in, couldn't stand the sterile smell and the mechanical sounds that kept her husband alive.

"I'll throw the TV out if I have to," she said.

"What about this?" he shook the phone at her and she ground her teeth. "Gonna through this out too?"

"I'll get a flip phone for him if I have to." She ignored Tony's eye roll. "I'm not going to subject my son—"

"You know that shield's going to him when he's twenty-one," Tony said, his voice soft though a bit biting. She paled and for once he didn't gloat.

"Stark?" She took a few steps closer to him. She came up to his shoulders, but she carried herself as if she was twice as tall. "What are you _not_ telling me?"

"Steve decided this, it was his idea," he whispered, glancing at the man in question, who lied on a bed closer to death than he had been in the ice. "Howie is already building his own Iron Man suit and well… I asked and—"

"Steve just _told you_ that he's going to give the mantel of Captain America to _our_ son?" she felt her brow twitch. Steve had never _once_ mentioned giving the shield to James. She had thought they both agreed they'd let James choose what he wanted to do with his life, not thrust something upon him that he didn't choose for himself.

"Natasha," Tony sighed, "face the facts. James is _built_ for this. He has both the super soldier and super spy serums in his blood and—"

"He could die," she said, "the serums, nobody is sure—"

"They're both working in harmony, have been since he was born. I mean… I'm no geneticist but it makes sense that your four previous pregnancies failed because the serums weren't working together correctly. You carried James to term. Yeah, okay, things got a bit ugly for the birth, _but_ all your checkups had him meeting all the markers, right?"

She glared at Tony. "I'm not having this conversation with you, not now." He had a point though, and she hated admitting that. Her first four pregnancies all had ended in miscarriages and James had been a success. The actual pregnancy had been a medical success with James meeting all the markers he was supposed to. The birth had just been difficult but that wasn't a fault on James' part. Helen _had said_ the birth would be the most difficult part for her. She closed her eyes and heard the door open and close. The doctors left, the lead doctor gave her a wane smile and said she could so see him. She waited for a few moments before going in.

Steve laid on the bed, a tube up his nose and another taped to his mouth. A breathing monitor on his finger and wires on his chest, an IV in his hand. That didn't bother her, she was used to seeing such sights. What caught her off guard was the straps that bound him to the bed. "He's unconscious," she said.

"It's for his protection. In case he wakes up," Tony said, joining her. "Don't want him to hurt himself more. You know how he is."

"He's…" she sniffed and walked closer to Steve, taking his fingers. His skin felt clammy. She just wanted him to wake up. Her knees gave out then and Tony was quick with a chair, catching her and scooting her closer to Steve. "Damn you," she whispered, wiping at her eyes and taking his hand. "You aren't invulnerable, idiot." She smiled up at Tony when he gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. "You should go home. Pepper and Howie need you."

"I know, but so do you."

"I'll be fine, Tony. I've dealt with this before." It was a lie. Sure, she'd seen friends die, Fury was in a similar position and Steve too, once. But back then Steve had been a tentative friend, not her husband and the father of her son, not the man she loved.

"It's different this time," he replied. She gave a snort. "James needs you right now."

"He has Bucky."

"Yeah, but you're his mom and he'll get his answers one way or another. Everyone knows he's Captain America's son, but everyone — even you — forget he's also Black Widow's son."

She smirked. Tony was right; James may not look like her a lot, taking more after his father in physical strength and appearance but there were aspects about him that were undeniably _her_. "You're right," she whispered, "James is built to succeed Steve" — she glared at Tony — "but it'll be his choice."

"Hey, you need to take that up with him once he gets better." Tony raised his hands in surrender. "But seriously, Natasha, go home. Hug your kid." He quirked a smile. "Like I'm going to do." He gave her shoulder another squeeze. "Promise me?"

"I'll go home later." She felt Tony pat her shoulder as he sighed. She grabbed his fingers and squeezed, watching the ventilator mechanically breath for Steve. "I promise," she said. He gave her fingers a squeeze and walked off. It felt cold in the room all of the sudden; she wrapped her arms around herself, felt her body tremble as she held back her sobs. Steve had splotchy bruises on his face along with cuts. More minor injuries on his arms. It was then she realized that his shield was missing. "Where's his shield?" she asked, getting up to look for it. "Where's his damn shield?" she went over to the little pile that were his things and began tearing them apart looking for the damn shield.

"It's alright," a voice said, she turned to see Bruce, meek and shrinking in the shadows, a cut taped on his forehead. "It's there." He pointed to the shield and she relaxed. "Nat—"

"Don't call me that Bruce, please," she whispered. He nodded and took a tentative step towards her. "Promise me he'll be okay."

"Thor saved him. He was unconscious when he fell, Thor caught him. If he had hit the water—"

"I don't want details, I want my husband," she hissed. "Look at him Bruce… he's…" she took a deep shaky breath, trying to find her center. A few years ago, this wouldn't have been that difficult, hiding her emotions. Things changed, she changed, Steve changed her. She jerked when she felt Bruce's light touch on her shoulder. The tears fell then, one, then two and three until she accepted Bruce's comforting hug and sobbed in his chest, letting him rub her back.

"You need to go home," he said, echoing Tony. "You'll drive yourself mad staying here, waiting for him."

"I don't wanna leave him, he needs me," she said, though she knew there was nothing she could for Steve. She just didn't want to go home and tell her son that his father was fighting for his life in a hospital bed. If she went home, it would make everything too real and she didn't think she could handle that right now. "He needs me."

"What about James?"

"James has Bucky and—"

"He needs his mother too," Bruce said, his voice soft. The lump in her throat was difficult to swallow, she glanced over at Steve, the machines keeping him alive while his body healed. There was nothing she could do, but she feared if she left him he would leave her. "You need some rest and you won't find it here worrying away in the hospital. I'll stay with him, I'll call if anything happens."

"But—"

"Go home," he said, pushing her away. She swallowed, feeling small and helpless, like the small girl she was when the KGB came and took her away from her parents that snowy day in December. She glanced at Steve again, the heart monitor beeping in time with his pulse. She sighed and nodded.

"Okay," she said and went over to Steve's shield. She picked it up, the leather straps flexible and smooth from years of use; she could almost feel the indents of his fingers. He had protected her with that shield so many times. "I'm going home," she announced and walked out of the room.

* * *

He knew he'd get in trouble if anyone caught him watching the video, but he had to know, and nobody was telling him anything. The image of his father — Captain America — falling through the sky while the hijacked helicarrier bursting into flames over the Pacific had seared itself into his brain. James almost didn't believe it was real. His father would have never… he shut the video off when his uncle came into the room, looking tired, more so than usual. "Hey, your mom just called, she's on her way to pick you up."

"Oh, okay," James said, putting his phone back into his pocket. He schooled his face into an impassive mask. "When'll she be here?"

"In about twenty minutes, so get your things together." Bucky rubbed his left arm; the metal's gleam muted in the dim light. "You be nice to her, she had a rough day."

No kidding, knowing Dad got blown up over the Pacific. "Okay, I will," he chirped, putting on the façade of the naïve boy that didn't realize his father was dead. He got up from the couch and gathered his things and then helped his uncle clean up. He needed something to do and his uncle didn't stop him from doing it. The work kept his mind from dwelling on the fact his father was dead, that Captain America was no more. It helped pass the twenty minutes and allowed him to think of how to hide the fact he knew his father was gone from his mother.

A knock sounded at the door, Bucky answered it and James saw his mother. Her face was pale, eyes red rimmed from crying but dry. She still oozed strength and stability despite the tragedy. She glanced at his uncle and then at him. "James," she said, her voice soft. He smiled, gathering his things and gave her a hug.

"Hey, Mom," he said, mimicking her soothing tone. He smiled when she kissed his hair. "Work was good?"

"Stressful," she said. "Thanks Bucky."

"No problem," he said, "and kiddo" — James looked at his uncle — "You remember what I said."

"I will, Uncle Bucky," he said and followed his mother out of his uncle's apartment and down to her car.

The drive back was silent. The radio remained off and all he could hear was the sounds of the car and the rain that started. They drove to their house, a secluded neighbourhood outside the city. Their house was tucked away in the back with a big backyard. James thought it was eerie as they pulled up to it, the eyes of their cats glowing as the headlights of his mom's car caught them just right. "Clean their boxes, then shower and get ready for bed." She said as she parked the car and turned the engine off. "You have school tomorrow."

He rolled his eyes. He didn't feel like going to school tomorrow, not with his dad dead. Though he supposed normalcy was a good cure for such a situation. "I don't want to go to school tomorrow," he mumbled. That earned him a sharp glare from his mother.

"You're going to school tomorrow, James," she said. He opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it, smiling for her benefit.

"It's going to be okay, Mom, I promise," he said, though his smile fell when tears welled in his mother's eyes. "M-Mom, it's okay! Don't… don't cry!"

"Oh baby," she whispered, cupping his face. She kissed his nose. "What am I going to do with you?" she asked, brushing some of his strawberry blond hair out of his face. He forced a smile, hating seeing his mother like this. She was always so strong, so brave; sometimes he thought she was stronger than Dad with the way she ran their home and the intelligence for the Avengers. She always knew how to fix something, where something was; her dinners were amazing, and the house was always clean and the intelligence reports shipshape and squared away. He loved her so much and seeing her so broken because his father was dead… _hurt_.

"It's going to be okay," he said again and felt a bit better when she nodded and let go of him.

"Do as I asked," she said, he nodded, taking the keys from her and going into the house. The cats mewed, greeting him and he went about checking their food and water bowls before cleaning the litter boxes. He took a shower and headed back downstairs. He was a bit surprised his mother was in the kitchen, too stressed to worry that Izzy and Dino were on the counter. The two black cats blinked lazily at him as his mom put on a pot of water for tea. "Didja brush your teeth?"

"Not yet" — he scooped the cats up and set them down — "I will before bed." He hopped onto the stool and Izzy hopped onto his lap. He smiled when the cat started to purr. His mother pulled two cups from the shelf. "Can I have hot chocolate?"

"Of course baby," she said and grabbed a packet of hot chocolate. He knew she was tense, guarded and in a way, he was too. He didn't want her to find out that he knew what happened and she didn't want to tell him. He sucked on his lip as he petted the cat.

"Mom—"

"I've been thinking, James, if you don't… if you really are that worried about me, you don't have to go to school tomorrow." She smiled at him, but it didn't reach her eyes. "But only if you don't want to."

"N-No," he said, "I'll go… if… if you want me to." He accepted the mug of hot chocolate, stirring his spoon around. "Too bad we don't have whipped cream. Dad always put whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles on top…" he stopped, staring down at his drink. Dad's gone now, he won't be able to do that with me ever again. He blinked, rubbing his nose as he looked around the house. Family pictures hung on the archway that lead between the kitchen and the dining room: his parents' wedding, when he was born, his first couple of birthdays, some school pictures, his first baseball game his dad took him to, a trip to the beach, and finally the trip to Disneyland over the summer. His eyes settled on his father's smiling face and James realized that he'll never see his father again: never hear his laugh, never hear him call his name, never hear him say 'I love you', ever again. Ghosts of his memories of his father flitted across his vision as he looked at the living room: him and his dad playing cars and super heroes, the three of them playing a board game for family game night or snuggled up on the couch because it was family movie night, watching the World Series together and cheering on their favorite team (or the next best one, because let's face it: the Dodgers weren't going to the World Series any time soon), wrestling in the living room or sitting on the floor on a snowy Christmas morning with his parents and opening presents before going to Avengers Tower to celebrate with his uncles.

Tears stung his eyes and he rubbed at them. He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't going to make his mom worry. He had to be strong for her; he was the man of the house now and he had some large shoes to fill. "It'll be okay, Mom." He pushed the cat off his lap and hopped down, taking his cup. "Let's watch some tv and then I'll go brush my teeth and head off to bed."

He went to the couch, turning on the tv. It flicked onto the last channel watched, which happened to be the news. He watched the same footage of his father falling as the helicarrier blew up; the tears fell then, and he took a big swallow of his hot chocolate, ignoring his burning tongue. He would stand strong; his father would've wanted him to do that at least.

* * *

Natasha stared, watching that horrible footage again and her wasn't quick enough in turning off the tv; James stood rigid with trembling shoulders as he drank his hot chocolate. There was no avoiding it now, she'll have to tell him. On soft feet, she padded across the room and wrapped her son in a hug. "Shh, shh, it's okay baby, it's okay," she cooed, smoothing his hair. She pulled his cup from between them, so he could wrap his arms around her. She pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, smelling his hair, swaying to and fro. "It's okay." If she said it enough times it was going to be true, it had to be.

"Why did he have to die?" James asked, his voice muffled. "I miss him." He held her tighter. "I… I never got to say sorry."

Natasha closed her eyes, forgetting that James and Steve had gotten into an argument about something — something stupid now that she thought about it — before Steve left a week ago; both of her boys had bruised egos and Steve felt as the parent, he shouldn't apologize first. She had tried convincing Steve to call James before leaving but clearly that never happened. "James," she said, pulling away from her son and leading him onto the couch. The broken teary face of her son broke her heart more than seeing her husband lying in the ICU. She wiped his tears and pulled him close, snuggling him as the plush cushions enveloped them. "James, he's not dead."

"What?" James looked up at her, cheeks stained with tears and eyes big and watery. "But… I saw it! On the tv… on my phone! Dad was falling from the helicarrier and—"

"Thor caught him. He's alive… but… but hurt very badly. He's in the hospital right now." She smoothed his hair, wiping away his tears. "He's going to get better James, I promise."

"C-Can I see him?" James asked, sniffing and rubbing at his eyes. It was the one question she didn't want to deal with; she could barely look at Steve herself, and yet her son was asking to go see his father, broken and lying unconscious in a hospital bed. "Tomorrow?"

"Of course sweetie," she said, knowing that was the only answer she could give. "We'll go see him tomorrow. You don't have to go to school. I'll call the school, explain you'll be gone for the rest of the week due to a family emergency." She hugged her son, feeling better that she had someone to share her pain with. She turned the tv back on, changing the channel to some movie she didn't know but it looked lighthearted and didn't have explosions. It was mind-numbing and allowed her to forget about her troubles. James settled down too, going quiet as the tolls of the day appeared on his face. She looked at him, surprised how much he looked like his father: his jaw was starting to appear more defined, the baby fat from his cheeks disappearing and she could easily see Steve in his face. His shoulders were going to be broad and strong; chest and arms wrapped with thick muscle. The spitting image of his father, and already she could see it coming true.

She stroked his hair, coaxing her boy to sleep and smiling when he finally did so. She'll let brushing his teeth slide just this once. She murmured softly to him in Russian, pressing kisses to his brow. He was on the cusp of manhood, yet he was still so innocent, she felt an overwhelming urge to protect her son from everything; yet knowing she couldn't and shouldn't. He was the son of two Avengers, in a way he didn't get the luxury of remaining sheltered and naïve like some children did. James murmured in his sleep, snuggling closer to her. The movie had ended and another one started. Her phone buzzed, she picked it up, pressing the speaker phone option. "Hello?"

"Hey, Nat." It was Clint. "I just got back, heard what happened. You okay?"

She looked at James, glanced at the cats curled up at her feet. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed the midnight hour. "Yeah, I'm fine. I got James. How are you?"

"Okay, bit banged up. Nothing I'll die from," he said. She chuckled, smiling a little as she remembered how Clint told her than in this bitter business you either had to laugh at the horrors or cry about them, no in between. "If you need anything, just let Laura or I know, we'll bring it or—"

"I know. Thanks Clint for checking in."

"Hey, you're basically family. Just doing my brotherly duty and checking up on my sis," he said, and she laughed; it felt good to laugh even though it felt like her world was falling apart. "He'll pull through, I mean… he survived seventy years trapped in ice. If that didn't stop him then this won't."

She nodded. "I know. I know he will Clint."

"Get some rest, feel better, don't stress," he said, they both knew that was easier said than done. She squeezed James closer to her.

"I will, thanks again," she said and hung up after Clint said goodbye. She looked at James, hating to wake him up, but she shook his shoulder and his eyes fluttered open.

" _Mamulya_ ," he asked, his voice thick and sleepy. She smiled at that, kissing his brow. Knowing her son spoke her native tongue warmed her heart and sometimes they'd speak in Russian and Steve would look on confused, it was even funnier (and a bit mean spirited in a way) when Bucky joined in and they'd have conversations that excluded Steve.

" _Moya malen'kaya Yasha_ ," she whispered, nuzzling his forehead. "Time for bed," she said, switching to English. He nodded, and got up from the couch, trudging up to his room upstairs. She watched him go, sighing when he was gone. She drained the cup of cold tea and set both mugs in the sink. She armed the security system and enabled the cloaking system, turned off the lights and headed to upstairs; Izzy and Dino leading the way, two inky shadows in the darkness.

* * *

The shower was relaxing, allowing her to unwind from the day she had. It also hid her tears as she thought about how the day _should_ have gone. The evening should have been with the three of them eating dinner together, Steve helping James with his homework. It should have ended with her and Steve in bed together, his fingers tangled in her hair as he pressed searing kisses to her throat while settling himself between her thighs. The fact that it didn't, pained her and frustrated her. She turned the water off, toweling herself and pulling on her pajamas. She brushed her teeth, trying not to look at Steve's toothbrush. He still used a manual instead of an electric. She spat and rinsed and was about to leave when she noticed a cucumber facial mask sitting next to her face cream.

"Hold still," she chided, putting the gooey facial mask on Steve's face. His hands slipped up her sleep-tank causing her to giggle. "If you keep doing that, this stuff'll get into your eye and then we'll have problems."

He chuckled. "I think we already have problems, Nat," he said. She shook her head at that, smoothing the goo on the right side of his face. How did they end up in this situation, she had no idea. If she was honest it was probably because Tony said something, and Steve came to her defense, so now Steve's ego wasn't letting him quit and that made her smear gooey cucumber facial mask on his face. Still, it wasn't every girl that got to say he husband subjected himself to beauty treatments. "Am I beautiful yet?" once she got half his face covered. "This is supposed to make me beautiful right?"

"Oh my God," she laughed at how _serious_ he sounded. "Steve, you—" She shifted on his lap, and he gave a soft groan.

"Well, am I?" he asked, he had closed his eyes to make sure none of the goo got into them. "Tell me Natasha, am I _fergalicious_?" That suave boyish smirk appeared on his lips.

She bit her cheek to keep from laughing too hard and set the tube of facial mask down otherwise she would have squeezed it all out in her mirth. "Where did you… how the hell did… did Tony tell you that term?" she asked between laughs. His grin widened and she yipped when he lightly pinched her skin.

"Why don't you find out," he purred. She pushed him back a little bit and continued apply the mask to his apollonian face.

"Mouth shut," she said, apply the goo to his upper lip. He hummed and in a few minutes, she got the other of half of his face gooped up. She snapped the bottle close, rubbing her hands together to get the stuff off her fingers. "Now, you have to let it sit for a few minutes until it's all dry."

"And then I'll be radiant and beautiful?" he asked, blinking his eyes open. He tried to smile but the right half of his face was starting to dry. "Ugh, I feel it drying. It's tight and itchy."

"Don't touch it," she said, grabbing his hand. He pouted, she giggled, playing with his fingers. She should tell him, but at the same time she didn't want to. What if I lose this baby? It'll be my fifth miscarriage and we've already had so much heartache trying to have a child. Steve wrapped his fingers around hers, causing her to look at him. There was a tenderness in his gaze.

"Whatcha thinkin' about, darling?" he asked, voice soft, one half of his face shiny and the other gooey looking. She smiled a little bit, bringing his hand to her cheek and she leaned into his touch. "Nat?"

"I'm pregnant," she said, and waited, watching the emotions dance across his face. He may be reserved around others but in this tender quiet moments he wore his heart on his sleeve.

"You mean… I'm… That's amazing, Nat! I can't believe" — then his face fell as he put a hand on her stomach — "will we lose this baby too?" he whispered. Her heart broke at the desperate pleading tone in his voice. It had been a long three-year struggle with four miscarriages and so many false positives. So many times, they had gone to bed hurt and frustrated and angry because they couldn't conceive a child. It was getting to the point that she even worried about her marriage and was looking into marriage counseling.

Still, she smiled because — despite the fact that she _could_ miscarry — it was good news. "I'm twelve weeks, Helen and Bruce think there's a good chance this one can make it. It's a week longer than the last one."

He hummed and scooted her off his lap as he repositioned himself onto his belly and rolled up her sleep-tank. "Hey baby," he said, gently poking her stomach, "this is your daddy speaking. I wanna tell you something, you're a Rogers and that makes you a fighter. So, hang in there, don't give up. Your mommy and I wanna see you and hold you and give you all the love we have." He smiled, looking up at her; the facial mask was starting to peel. "That means you have to keep fighting, don't give up because we're waiting to meet you at the end of it." He gave her a belly a kiss and smiled at her. "Do you think she heard me?"

"What makes you think it's a girl?" she asked. "Hold still, it's dry." She began to peel the mask off. "And I think _he_ heard you loud and clear." She shifted and there was a soft thump as the tube of facial mask fell to the floor.

She traced the tube of facial mask, a smile on her face. James held on and nine months later, she had her baby boy in her arms. She never seen Steve so happy. It almost seemed unreal that it was thirteen years ago, it felt like yesterday when James was born. She heard her phone ring from her bedroom. "Shit," she grumbled, running to it and almost tripping over the cats and she lunged for it. "Hello?" she asked, putting it up to her ear. "Bruce? Is Steve —" Please don't be dead, please don't be dead, _please don't be dead!_ "— he's awake? O-Okay, I'll be over soon. Just lemme call Bucky. Thanks." She hung up and called Bucky.

* * *

James woke to the smell of pancakes and sunlight streaming into his room. Izzy and Dino had made a little bed for themselves at the foot of his bed, their bright eyes the only points of color in their inky faces. He glanced at his bedside clock, the time read nine-thirty. "Damn," he grumbled, throwing the covers off him and made a grimace as he realized he said a bad word. He threw on his clothes and raced downstairs only to see his uncle flipping pancakes. "Uncle Bucky?" he asked, confused as he took the offered plate of syrup drenched pancakes. "Why are you here?" he asked.

"Your dad woke up in the middle of the night. Your mom left to go be with him," Bucky said as he sat down. "We're going to go visit after breakfast."

"Dad's awake?" James asked, a hope welling up in his chest. Bucky nodded. "He's going to get better right? Now that he's awake?"

"Eat your breakfast," Bucky said, and James huffed, but dug into the fluffy sweet pancakes. He chewed thinking of all the times his dad made pancakes. While his mom made amazing meals, it was his dad that was truly the hidden chef of the family. His dad cooked whenever he could, and James loved it. "Now, James—"

"He's gonna be happy see me! I'll tell him I'm sorry for arguing with him and—"

"James, kiddo, slow down," Bucky said and put his metal hand on his hand. He looked up, saw the worry looked in his uncle's eyes. "Your dad took… well, he did die — _briefly_ , the doctors brought him back — it's a… well, it's not going to be pretty."

He forced himself to swallow the lump of food in his mouth. It was too much, to know that for a moment he had lost his father. He gripped his fork tighter. "But he's okay now right?" he asked, staring at his pancakes.

"Yeah, yeah, he is," Bucky said. "But he's still pretty banged up, probably won't be able to go home for a few more weeks."

He nodded, trying to eat more of his breakfast, having two super serums in him made him hungry more often than normal kids, plus he was a growing boy. He ate, though it was laborious, and the pancakes tasted like ash in his mouth. He kept thinking about his father and hoping if he was going to get better. Once he finished, he went to the sink and put his plate in sink. He pulled out his phone and stared at the picture on his lock screen. "He's going to be okay, right?" he asked.

"Go brush your teeth," his uncle said, "then we'll go and of course he will. You're dad's Captain America."

But he's my dad first. James didn't say that, he instead nodded and did as he was told. They left a few minutes later, James watching the bright streets as they drove pass, wondering about the people in the cars and on the sidewalks and city buses. Did they know his father was in the hospital? Did they care? Probably not. He sighed, closing his eyes, trying to not cry. "What did the news say?"

"About what?"

"About Dad?" James looked at his uncle. His uncle wore short sleeves and one of those spandex tattoo sleeves and a glove on his left arm to hide the fact it was metal. "Or did they say nothing at all?"

"They said everyone made it out alive, home safe with their families," he said. "Y'know the usual dog and pony bullsh— _crap_."

"You can swear around me, Uncle Buck," James said, his tone glum, "I won't tell Dad." His uncle's truck slowed as they came upon the intersection and then to a stop; the light was red.

"Your dad swears, just not in mixed company."

"You mean around girls?" James asked. His uncle nodded. "Why?"

"Because back when we were kids, people didn't do that sorta thing," Bucky explained, "and you still shouldn't do it. Even if things have changed." The light turned green and they began to move again. James huffed, watching the sky slowly disappear as the buildings grew taller until only strips of sunlight illuminated the concrete jungle that was New York. The rest of the drive was silent, James looked through his phone, found nothing interesting and turned his attention to the window. His uncle pulled into the visitor's parking lot of the hospital. "It never hurts to be a gentleman, James," his uncle added. James nodded as he unbuckled and hopped out of the truck. "You coming in?"

"James!" his mother called, he turned and gave her a wane smile as she hugged him. "Thanks Bucky."

"No problem Nat," Bucky said. "Do you think… maybe later I—"

"Steve'll understand, right now the doctors don't want too many people crowding him, afraid it'll overwhelm him." A car screeched along the road, and he looked towards the street, trying to see if he could spot it. He always hated those people that raced down the street. "You can come back when he's a bit more himself."

"Thanks," Bucky said, "it's just that… bad memories is all." James frowned, wondering about what his uncle was talking about. "Remember what I said, James."

"Okay." He watched his mother and uncle hug, and then he gave his uncle a hug too. "I'll tell Dad you made pancakes and he missed out." It was easy pretending to be a kid, sometimes. Especially when pretending allowed him a chance to escape his own fears and eased the consciences of the adults in his life. "I'll tell him you'll make pancakes for him when he's all better."

"You do that, James," Bucky said and ruffled his hair and got back into his truck. They watched him drive away and James looked at his mother.

"Come," she said and lead him into the hospital. He followed, silent and eyes fixed on his mother's back. He tried to not look around, gawking at the rooms as they passed; nurses and doctors in scrubs with gleaming name tags walking pass, the intercom calling for various personal to report to different sections of the hospital, the sick people in the rooms. He wondered about those without any family or friends, if they had anyone that cared about them. "Keep up James," his mother said and he trotted to catch up, her pace was brisk.

They took another elevator and reached a private wing of the ICU. Guards stood at the door and James swallowed as the glared down at him. He felt his mother put her hands on his shoulders. "Natasha Rogers," she said, eyeing the guards.

"Is Dad in trouble?" he whispered.

" _Tikho, a on net. Oni zdes', chtoby zashchitit' yego._ " She squeezed his shoulders and smiled sweetly at the men.

" _Khorosho,_ " he said, as his mother handed over a badge and the bigger burlier of the two guards scanned it. He nodded and followed his mother into the room. He heard the monitors beeping, a doctor talking and a grunt in response. "Uncle Tony," he said, going up to his uncle.

"Hey, James," Tony said, hugging him. "Be quiet, your dad's talking to the doc."

"Why are there guards outside?" James asked. He glanced back at the two men standing guard. "Mom said Dad isn't in trouble."

"Really, Tony? You needed to call Happy and get the security detail?" Natasha said, as she hugged his uncle. James looked around the room. He couldn't see much of it and his father's bed was hidden by the privacy curtain.

"Hey, I don't want some crazy to come and finish the job," Tony said. "Especially when we still don't know who ordered the helicarrier hijacking in—" his uncle stopped talking when the privacy curtain _shinked_ to the side, revealing the source of the beeps. James' eyes grew wide, and he grabbed his mother's hand; he shook.

His father lied there, at a slight incline, his eyes closed and his face swallow. He could see the small cuts on his face and arms, still red but smaller. An IV attached to his hand, his wedding ring missing. He had blankets up to his waist and wore a checkered blue hospital gown. James glanced at his mother and together they walked up to the bedside. His father's face looked relaxed, a small grimace tweaked his lips down. James grabbed the railing, looking at his mother for reassurance. She nodded, and he put his hand on his father's. "Dad?" he asked, his voice soft and timid. "Dad… Dad it's me, James." He swallowed thickly. "I'm s-sorry, about what I said before you left. I… I didn't mean any of it, okay. I love you. Please—" he swallowed down his sob, and squeezed his father's hand. Please Dad, don't go…. Don't leave ma and Mom.

The silence encroached as the seconds ticked by. Even the sounds of the monitors didn't make a lot of noise. Steve's eyes fluttered and opened, but it was a great effort as he turned his head with the same glacial slowness. "James," he croaked, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Daddy," he said, face scrunched up as he tried to hold back his tears. The dams broke when he felt his father's calloused fingertips on his cheeks. "Daddy."

"What… did I tell ya… about… crying?" Steve asked, though it was difficult for him to speak. James sniffed, wiping at his eyes and holding his father's hand.

"Th-That it's o-okay," he said, hiccupping. Steve smiled, humming in acknowledgement. James cried, shoulders shaking as he held onto his father's hand.

"How's the pain?" his mother asked, James looked up at his, she could feel her fingers run through his hair. His father grimaced.

"Hurts," he said, putting his other hand on his stomach. He shook, sweat beading at his brow. "Morphine don't work… won't give me h-higher dose… so…" he gave her a weak smile. James frowned, sad anew that his father had to suffer in pain.

"Maybe Uncle Bruce will come up with medicine to help you," he said. His father grinned at that, a laugh tried to bubble out of him, but he hurt too much, and it came out as a groan, his grin turning into a grimace.

"James," his mother chided. He sighed, squeezing his father's hand.

"Nat," his father said. His eyes fluttered open again. His mother huffed, muttering something and she pulled up a stool and a chair. He sat down, watching his parents. His mother fussed with his father's collar and his father closed his eyes, a look close to peace on his face. James let his father's hand go and he watched as his father grabbed his mother's smaller slender hand. "I came… back… to you…" he whispered.

"You did," she said, her voice weak. James scooted closer, putting his hand on top of his parents. His mother's other hand snaked around his waist. "You came back Steve. Came back to us."

His father smiled at that, and James knew then that everything was going to be alright.

* * *

 **So, this is inspired by three things: a fic, a gif set, and the end of Winter Soldier.**

 **I got my hands on some Captain America comics, so far my favorite one is** _ **Captain America: White**_ **. I really like the art style and how Steve's drawn. Plus while it's pretty dark and centers around Steve and Bucky's adventures during WWII, it's… irunno, kinda lighthearted. Not in the happy-go-lucky feel, there is still that prevailing angst, but kinda gallows humor-y. Irunno, that's the best I can do.**

 **So, I gave James a Russian name as well. His American name is James Aleksander Rogers. His Russian name is Yakov Stepanovich Romanova, and Nat sometimes calls him "Yasha" which is the Russian diminutive of Yakov (in English she calls him Jamie).**

 **Riley is Sam's son (for those that didn't figure that out). Bucky doesn't want to see Steve at the moment because it reminds him of what happened when Shield fell and he has Major Angst ™ about it.**

 **The flashback scene is inspired by crazyk-c's artwork, and I modified the dialogue a little bit. Also, Steve getting excited, that dialogue is from one of the comics (he and Nat are in space fighting aliens, irunno. I found it on google).**

 **I hope you enjoyed this, and to my silent readers just leave a kudos in the comments. ;)**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**

 **PS: to my And We Run (AWR) readers, I'm currently editing the chapters because someone griped about a Steve consistency issue. I have three chapters left to go (which should be pretty quick) and then I'll work on chapter 17.**


	6. He Called the Nurse

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

Natasha looked up to see Clint staring at her. Shield was gone, been that way for a year now; the Avengers were all that stood between the world and evil. The Avengers Tower (the newly refurbished tower previously known as Stark Tower) was the base of operations and she had a nice apartment in Manhattan (paid for by Tony Stark). She tore off a hunk of her roll and began to make little balls out of it. "Clint."

"What's wrong?" he asked, sitting down. He pulled out a crumpled paper bag. "Let's see what's for lunch." He pulled out a turkey sandwich, a pudding cup, some carrot sticks. He reached in and pulled out a hand-written note from his daughter. He smiled. "Lila's precious," he said. She gave a smile and went back to picking at her lunch. "How's New York treating you?"

"Like DC. About the same," she said with a shrug. She glanced about the empty room, avoid of people save for her and Clint. The Stark employees all worked on floors one through ten. The rest of the floors were for the Avengers, both for living and for mission work. The elevator dinged, she spotted Sam and Steve though only Sam left, and the doors closed, hiding Steve. Clint stared at her, spoon in his mouth as he ate his pudding cup. "You're supposed to eat your sandwich and carrots before your pudding."

"I'm an adult," he said, "ergo I can eat my lunch however I want." He pointed his spoon at her. "And something's up."

"Nothing's up other than the sky," she replied coolly, pushing the little bread balls around. Sam sat a little ways away from them. "I'm fine Clint."

"You're playing with your food," he pointed out. She looked at the little bread ball man she made and popped its head into her mouth, chewing. He shuddered. "That's…"

"Not that hungry." She gave a tight smile, pushing the rest of the balls over. She tore another piece off and began to roll it between her fingers. Steve hadn't said anything to her all day, not even a polite hello. To be fair, she hadn't seen him all day either, so the fact he hadn't said hello to her didn't count.

"You were watching Steve." Her lips twitched, and he smirked, his eyes twinkling. She glowered at him, throwing a bread ball at his head. He ducked, chuckling. "Do I sense _pining_ from the Black Widow, Queen of Ice?"

"Don't make me kill you, I'd hate to sully our friendship like that," she said, giving him her best killer smile. As expected it didn't faze him, knowing an empty threat when he saw one. "And no, I don't like Steve."

"Course you don't" — he gave her a big fat stupid grin — "you _looooove_ him." He yelped. "You kicked my shin!"

"Next time," she said with serious calm, "it won't be your shin."

"You know he took your advice," Sam said, causing both her and Clint to look at him. He speared some pasta on his spork. "Called that nurse. They're meeting for lunch." She felt a cold chill run down her spine.

"Good for Steve," Clint said, smiling, "about time he gets himself back into the dating game."

"Yeah. Glad he got someone special again. Bachelor life isn't for him" — Sam smirked — "there's no shortage of girls wanting to be with him that's for sure. Had a few guys hit on him too."

"Really?" Clint's eyebrows shot up. "I mean, I'd fuck him if I was into that."

"Nah, man," Sam said, "if I were into guys, I'd do Thor. Have you seen him."

"Oh I've seen him, but Steve's—"

She frowned, staring at them as they talked about Steve as if he was a piece of meat. It reminded her how much she found Steve desirable — on a physical standpoint, she won't deny that he was an attractive man; specimen was what that Apple guy had said. — still, she didn't like her friends talking about him like that. "Where?" her voice was sharper than she intended, startling both men. Sam and Clint shared a confused look. "Where is he going?" she asked again, her voice calmer this time. No need to let them know she didn't like the idea of Steve dating anyone. And there I was trying to set him up on a date.

"Uh… think he said something about Panera Bread," Sam said as she got up from the table. "Natasha?" he called after her; she headed towards the elevator.

"Hey, Nat? Where ya going?" Clint asked. She paused, turning at to stare at them with a frown. She was going to spy on Steve and Sharon, of course. "Nat?"

"I'm going to get ice cream," she said, "wanna come? My treat?"

"I'll never turn down free food," Sam said, getting up from the table. Clint packed his lunch, getting up too.

"Me neither, plus Laura doesn't buy ice cream, says I eat it all," Clint said. She rolled her eyes as they got into the elevator and went to the garage. "Which ice cream parlor are we going to?"

"What Panera Bread did Steve say he was meeting that nurse at?" She asked, fixing Sam with a glare. He swallowed, frowning in confusion.

"What about ice cream?"

"It's on the way, trust me," she said. The elevator announced each floor as they met it and continued onwards towards the garage. She leaned against the railing, taking a few calming breaths and closing her eyes. Bad enough that she had to take Sam and Clint along, but it stung that Steve called that nurse. He had brushed off every previous attempt she made to set him up on a date, yet he calls _Sharon_ of all people. She pouted, knowing she had no right to be hurt about this. Steve was his own person, he can date whomever he wanted to, and she should be supportive and happy for him like any good friend.

Friend. That word… that status… was bitter on her tongue and sour on her heart. She had been his friend ever since the Insight Incident. At first it was nice, she was honest with herself and around him. He didn't have any stipulations to their relationship and she found it liberating. It also allowed her to get in touch with her emotions, display them more openly around him. And that led to her getting attached; she began looking for him in rooms, making excuses to walk with him, talk with him, be near him. She had to see him and if she didn't she was crabby until she did. At first it wasn't so bad, but that had been months ago and now someone like Clint easily notice her change in moods depending on if she had seen or spoken to Steve or not.

I don't have a crush on Steve. Black Widow does not develop crushes. She chided herself. "Huh?" she stared at the two men and realized she was alone in the elevator.

"You okay Nat?" Clint asked. "You seemed pretty lost in thought."

"Really craving ice cream?" Sam quipped, she shook herself and gifted Sam a scowl as she led them to her car. "Okay, someone's pissy."

"Don't feel bad, she hasn't spoken to Steve today," Clint said, "she'll be right as rain as soon as she talks to him."

"I heard that Barton," she said.

"But we're getting ice cream," Sam pointed out, to which Clint gave an amused snort. She unlocked her car and watched her two friends approach her car. "Right?"

Clint opened his mouth, but she beat him to the punch. "Of course, now get in otherwise you're paying for your own cone," she said and got into her car. Clint took the front passenger seat and Sam the back seat.

"That's cold Nat," Sam said once they got in and she began to back out of the parking spot.

"Why don't you just call him on his cell and ask him out?" Clint said, setting his sack lunch between his feet and drumming his fingers along his thigh. Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Be easier than stalking him."

"I'm driving to an ice cream parlor to treat my two friends to ice cream and it _just so happens_ to be by the Panera Bread Steve took Sharon for lunch." It wasn't her best lie, she knew it wasn't her best lie. Hell, even Sam knew it wasn't her best lie. Still, if she admitted aloud that she was spying — okay _stalking_ — on Steve, then she'll have to admit that she liked him as more than just a friend; and that was something she refused to do. She would rather face a hoard of aliens and killer robots than admit to anyone she had fallen in love with Steve Rogers. "I'm not stalking Steve, Clint. We're going for ice cream remember?"

"You know nobody believes that," Clint said. "Not even Sam." He looked over his shoulder. "Right?"

"Well, when you put it that way," he huffed. "You know he likes her a little bit."

Fuck. "I know how to pick them," she said as she pulled into traffic, cutting off someone and ignoring their blaring horn. She wove in and out of traffic, making yellow lights. Clint and Sam making comments about her driving. "There's no backseat driving in my car," she said and took a deep breath. She needed her game face on. I'm Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow, master spy. She pulled into an alley, her car bumping and bouncing along the pot hole infested path.

"You're really pissed about this," Clint said, holding to his seat as they bounced along. Sam grunted in the back as the car hit a rather larger pot hole. She gritted her teeth, the Panera Bread up ahead on the other side of the street. She watched as Steve and Sharon sat down at one of the iron wrought tables.

"Shut up and lemme drive," she grumbled, parking at the other end, the restaurant in full view (this wasn't suspicious at all, nope). People were sitting in the patio section, couples and business people, friends and family members; all enjoying the late spring sunlight. Women in sundresses or shorts with floral print tops, men in business suits or colorful polo shirts and cargo shorts. Steve and Sharon sat in front of them. Sharon had a nice sundress on and Steve… Steve wore a blue button-down shirt and khaki slacks.

"He always wears old man clothes," Sam grumbled. "I told him to wear something nice."

She glared at Sam. Steve wearing 'old man clothes' was a good thing. It may put Sharon off (seriously, who would want to date a hunk like Steve if he dressed in clothes more fitting for your grandfather). Though the color of the shirt was in poor taste, it brought out his eyes too much and his eyes were one of his best features. She reached over and popped the glover box open, snagging the binoculars. "Are those standard Shield issue?"

"Navy SEAL," she corrected, leaning forward and bringing them to her eyes. She adjusted the focus until she could see Sharon and Steve clearly. "Damn. He's smiling."

"Isn't that usually a good thing?" Clint asked. She glared at him before going back to spying. Cars began to encroach on her field of vision, the light must be red and she clicked her tongue when they blocked her view. "I can't believe you won't talk to him."

"I talk to Steve plenty of times."

"You know what I mean."

"If he's happy why are we doing this?" Sam asked, leaning forward, arms resting on the front seats. "Isn't that what you want Natasha? For Steve to be happy?"

Yes, I want him to be happy… happy with me. "Of course I do," she snipped. "I'm just worried about him. Women these days can be man eaters."

"He's made of sterner stuff than you give him credit for," Clint said, "he _did_ serve in WWII."

"I know that. Everyone thinks he's a lost little lamb but he's not," she said, peeking through the binoculars again, she couldn't see anything still.

"And he's just awkward around girls cause he doesn't have any experience, he's not naïve and stupid," Sam added. "Besides, Sharon helped us out a few times when we tried to track down the Winter Soldier. She's cool."

That bit of information hurt a lot more than it should have. Steve had asked her to come, not in so many words — in fact he was asking if she was going to tag along with Fury — but she knew he wanted her to come. They _had_ made a great team. It hurt knowing that he had contacted Sharon instead of her. Not that I made myself available. She lifted the binoculars back to her eyes once the cars had moved on. They had leaned closed, talking about something that made them both laugh and Steve grin. A waitress came out with two trays: one a salad and the other a sandwich. "He's never going to be full with just that."

"And how would you know that?" Sam asked. She waved her hand at him. "You know what, this is getting stupid. He's happy, she's happy. Nothing _bad_ is happening. Let's just go get ice cream."

Everything bad is happening, Sam! He's enjoying himself with her. "She ordered a salad," she announced.

"Oh my god, a salad!" Sam flopped back into the back seat. "What is the world coming too."

"She must be watching her figure," Clint said, leaning on the dash, he was watching too, the spy in him getting the better of him. "You know what that means?"

"She's into him," she grumbled. "I should have told him to call Lillian."

"The one with the lip piercing?" Clint asked, she nodded. "You know this reminds me of that one op, where we had to stake out that drug dealer."

"Oh, yeah. Vegas, I remember," she said, smiling. "That was a fun one. You and Laura just stated dating."

"Yeah, we were," Clint said, a wistful note in his voice. Sam shifted in the back seat.

"Guys, Steve's happy. Let him be happy Poor man's been frozen for seventy years. Let him get laid."

"Steve doesn't want to just get laid," she said as the cars return to obstruct her view; she shot Sam a glare. "He wants someone with shared life experiences."

"Well, Sharon has that," Sam said. She growled. "Can we get ice cream now?"

"We _will_ ," she hissed. "Just a few more minutes. I'm sure she's going to break his heart." The cars began to move again, and they were eating. Well Steve was eating, Sharon was picking at her food and doing a lot of talking. She watched them, wondering what they were talking about. "Does he seem guarded to you?" she looked at Clint.

Clint shrugged. "A little bit, but it's a first date—"

"Steve said it wasn't a date, they're just getting lunch," Sam said from the back seat.

"—so he's keeping his cards close to his chest."

"Guys!" Sam whined.

"You can walk to the ice cream shop, Sam! Its two blocks down." She glared at him. "This is important! This is the first date that my best friend—"

"Hey, I thought I was your best friend!" Clint said.

"— has had in seventy years! I want to make sure she doesn't break his heart!" She shoved Clint. "You're more like a brother to me than a best friend."

"Fair enough," Clint said.

"Well you might want to tell him that because he's coming over right now," Sam said, and sure enough Steve was weaving through traffic, smiling and waving at people as they stopped, almost hitting him in some cases. As he drew closer she could hear him say sorry.

Shit shit shit _shit!_ This was stupid, and she would have never been so careless as to park in such an obvious spot, knowing that Sharon had espionage training (though not as good as what the Red Room put her through) and Steve always was on the lookout. She shoved the binoculars back into the glover box as Steve walked up to her window and tapped it. She rolled it down. "Hey, fella." Plastering on her sweetest smile, reining in her emotions so nothing peeks out from her eyes. Steve knew her for three years now, but he still wasn't good at reading her. I can pull this off. I can totally pull this off. I'm the best spy that ever spied. I'm Black Widow.

"Nat… what are you doing here?" Steve ask, incredulous. She could smell the sour stink of the alley, the car exhaust from the street and his cologne. Pungent and earthy, maybe a hint of mint and cedar; she licked her lips. He bent down and peered into the car. "Hey Clint, Sam," he greeted. The two men waved back.

"Just driving around. Trying to find the ice cream shop."

"It's just up the street, about two blocks," he said, ever helpful, and even pointed in the same direction she had pointed to moments earlier when Sam was complaining.

"Thanks." She smiled, nodding. "What have you been up to?" she asked, smiling at him as if nothing was amiss. He stared at her, glanced over his shoulder and then back at her.

"I was having lunch with Sharon," he said. She nodded. "You told me to call her, so I did."

"And about time!" Sam said, interjecting, she glared at him. "We're going to go back to the Tower now, so you can finish up your date."

"It's not… really a date," Steve said, sounding a bit awkward. Her eyes met his and she saw something that gave her hope. "But maybe that's a good idea."

"You know," she drawled, drumming her hands on the steering wheel. "You and Sharon can come with us." What are you doing Romanoff? Inviting Steve and that… that… _woman_ to get ice cream? Going to get ice cream was just a cover story! "The more the merrier."

"Okay, we'll meet you over there," Steve said, patting the roof of her car. She gave him a smile that she hoped wasn't too brittle and watched him walk back across the street.

"Don't." She said, glaring at Clint and Sam as she put the car into drive and pulled out into traffic.

* * *

Natasha stared at the city below her as she cradled her mug of tea; it came alive at night with its neon lights and the streetlamps, cars going this way and that. Cities at night had always captured her heart. Ice cream had been a painful affair. Sharon ended up declining the invitation, so it was just her, Steve, Clint and Sam. They crowded the tiny table, squashed together like sardines and eating their ice cream. Clint teasing Steve about getting plain vanilla without any goodies. She was wedged up against Steve; it was difficult to keep her face impassive, but she managed, though his ears were red by the time they were done.

She sipped her tea. "Yeah… Yeah, I understand—" she turned her head at the sound of Steve's voice. He was a few feet away, one hand is his pocket as he paced, talking to someone on the phone "— yeah, it's just not gonna work out between us Sharon." He was silent, listening to Sharon talk. "Hey, at least we tried. Sometimes it just… it seems like it'll work but in the end it won't. We can still be friends." Another few minutes of silence. She started to feel guilty, coming between Steve and Sharon. She should have been happy for Steve and supported him, even if it was with another woman; that is what a _real_ friend would have done. "Okay, I understand, see ya around then. Bye."

She took a sip of her tea and felt her heartache as Steve came over to stand by her. "Hey," she said, turning and leaning against the window. He gave her a wane smile. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" he turned to look at her, flummoxed. She took a sip of tea and watched the traffic inch along the orange lit streets below.

"For coming between you and Sharon. Look, maybe you should call—"

He smiled, shaking his head, his hand resting on her shoulder. "No, Natasha, I was getting the feeling during the entire lunch that… well, something wasn't clicking," he said. "You stalking—"

"Spying, it was spying," she said.

"Alright, _spying_ " — he gave her a pointed look — "on me made me realize that maybe Sharon wasn't the right partner."

"That's good," she said, smiling at him as she took another sip of tea. "That's good I could help you realize that."

He stared at her, his hand fell from her shoulder and an awkward silence smothered them like a cold wet blanket. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, looking about and drummed her fingers along her cup. He rubbed the back of his head, staring at the night-lit city and shoved his hands in his pocket. "Y'know… I'm surprise how much the city has changed." He gave her a weak smile. "I mean, I know the city has changed" — he gave her a sheepish smile — "but, in many ways it has stayed the same. When I first came out of the ice, I looked up everyone I used to know. Most of them are dead, but Peggy was alive, so that was a nice thing. I went to a restaurant and sketched a building. I never felt so alone in my life."

"I know that feeling. After Clint rescued me from the Red Room, escaping my training… those first moments of freedom, I didn't know how to act. Sometimes I'd just sit in Central Park and watch people, wondering about them and their lives." She looked at him, studying the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose and the arch of his brow, how the orange light from the city below gave his hair a muted golden glow. A car blared its horn, sirens howled somewhere in the distance. Everyone was unaware that two people watched from upon high. "It's a terribly feeling," she said, "being surrounded by people yet knowing you're completely alone."

"Yep." The silence pressed in around them again, the awkwardness overbearing; she opened her mouth to say something but decided against. "Well, good night," he said, patting her shoulder. He walked away, his fingers leaving a lingering wanting trail down her bicep. She watched him, her impassive mask fractured. He entered the elevator; the doors closing with a melodious ding. She went back to staring at the city.

"If there was a time to talk to him that was it and you missed it," Clint said, stepping out of the shadows. She scowled at him and drank some more tea. "All that work to make him available and you blow it."

"I'm not going to pick him up on the rebound."

Clint laughed. "Reborn? Nat, he barely had one date with Sharon." He joined her in looking out the window. "If you don't make a move, someone else will snatch him up and you'll be in the same position you were in this afternoon."

"I don't think so."

"You're naïve if you think no woman would want to be with _Captain America_ ," he said.

"There's more to him than _just_ Captain America," she said, defensive. "You should know that, Clint."

"Then go talk to him," her friend urged her. "Tell him how you feel. I saw how he looked at you. He didn't want to go but you two just stood there all awkward," he said with a shrug. "I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did." He nudged her. "So, go. Go after him."

"I can't Clint," she said, "I'm… I'm not good enough for him. With my past, how could someone like him want someone like me."

"Hey." His voice was sharp, and he took her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "That day, when I was sent to kill you I saw who you truly are, Natasha. A good person, with a good heart. I made a call, it was the right call. You _are_ good enough for him. Everyone deserves a chance at happiness."

"Clint."

"Go Nat. Go snag Captain America, take him off the market," he said with a wink. She chuckled. "Break a million hearts in the process. You're good at doing that."

"Only a little." She smirked and finished her tea, handing him her cup. She went to the elevator and pressed the button for the living quarters. It was a short ride and she went to Steve's room. The door opened to reveal Steve in sweats and a t-shirt, his hair a bit damp and mussed. He tugged at the sleeves, the shirt too tight for him; she also noticed that he was starting a five o'clock shadow. "Hey." A smile graced his lips.

"Hey." She returned it, pressing her fingers together. She scuffed her foot against the ground, eyes counting his perfect toes. "Look Steve," she began, meeting his gaze, "I was thinking that… well, are you busy Saturday?"

"Well, all the guys from my barber sharp quartet are dead," he said, "so no. Not anymore. Why?"

"Would you like… irunno" — she gave a little shrug — "to do an activity together, Saturday?"

"An activity?" he arched a brow. "What kind of activity?"

"You know, go play miniature golf or something." She pouted when he laughed. "I'm being serious here, Rogers."

"Are you asking me out?" he asked, incredulous. She flushed for a heartbeat; she was going to murder Clint and make sure nobody found the body. Ever.

"No!" she said. "No, I'm not asking you out. I want to know if you'd like to do an activity on Saturday night."

He nodded, a half-smile appearing. "Fair enough Romanoff," he said, "and yes, I'd like to do an _activity_ with you on Saturday night."

"Great, uh… seven o'clock?" she asked, a smile wanting to break free.

"Sounds good," he said and gave her one of those winning boyish smiles of his that made her knees weak. "Can't wait."

She nodded, swallowing and licking her lips. She took a few deep breathes. "Yeah, me neither," she said. The awkward silence returned like that one friend nobody likes but can't seem to get rid of. "Yeah."

He chuckled, giving her a winning boyish grin. "Good night, Nat," he said. The door closed with a soft click.

"Good night Steve."

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed this.**

 **Save an author; leave a review**

 **Or kudos if you are a silent reader. I love you guys too.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	7. Missing the Missus

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

The city was dark, Tony had sent Happy to pick them up from the airport; Steve thought that was nice and he was grateful, spending sixteen hours on a plane was not his idea of a good time. Despite the fact that Tony had insisted they could borrow one of his private jets for their honeymoon, both he and Natasha had insisted on doing it the civilian way. That meant airports, flight attendants, and dodging the paparazzi and excited fans when they realized that Captain America and Black Widow were on the plane (and sometimes the disappointed ones when they realized that Captain America and Black Widow were now married).

So, they got back a little after midnight at JFK, both exhausted from jet lag and both thankful that Happy was there helping them to collect their bags and taking them to wherever they wanted to go, which still remained to be seen. "Nat, my apartment or the tower?" he asked, his new wife (it still baffled him that they were married).

"Don't care, just wanna bed," she mumbled, snuggling against him, "tired." Steve sighed, watching as Happy hefted the bags into the trunk of the sleek black car.

"My apartment then," he said as Happy closed the trunk. He opened the door and prodded Natasha into the back seat before getting in himself. Happy whistled as he got into the car, which rumbled to life with a push of a button (he'll never get over the fact cars no longer needed keys to start). He buckled himself in and Natasha, who was too out of it to care. He snuggled her as Happy drove. The late hour afforded them almost empty roads, only a few people out and the occasional cop car.

"How was Tokyo?" Happy asked. Steve yawned, the lights turned red as Happy pulled into the turn lane.

"Not bad, we stayed in Tokyo for a few days before heading to Kyoto. Then we went to one of those hot springs" — he nudged Natasha — "Nat one did we stay at? The hot spring?"

"Shut it, Rogers, sleepy." She snuggled deeper against him and he smiled at little bit. "It was Kurokawa, near Mt. Aso."

"Yeah," he said, "great place. We stayed at one of the resorts. Of course, Tony paid for everything. Then we went back to Tokyo for the remainder of the trip. Real fun too. Gotta see Kamakura and the giant bronze Buddha. Akihabara was, wow. Lotta tech and cartoons—"

"Anime, Rogers." Natasha cracked an eye open. "Stop talking, trying to sleep. You can tell everyone tomorrow when we go to the Tower."

"Okay, you just sleep honey," he said and pressed a kiss to her head. Happy didn't ask any more questions either. He looked out the window, the city mysterious and pretty, glowing like a jewel in the night. They left Queens and made their way into Brooklyn, where his apartment was. Prior to his relationship with Natasha, he spent maybe twenty-five percent of his time here, the rest of it was spent at the Tower. He didn't like being alone and Tony was always at the Tower if nobody else was. Then he and Natasha started dating and they began to spend more time at his apartment (or hers) than at the Tower. _Especially_ when their relationship got intimate and Tony flipped through the security footage one day and happened to find them in the thick of it.

His apartment building was on the pricier end of Brooklyn, so it was quiet and well lit. Natasha had fallen asleep on the drive over. He carried her, Happy carried their bags and unlocked the door. "Just set them in the hallway, we'll take care of them tomorrow."

"Gotcha, Cap," Happy muttered and set the bags down before getting the rest. He smiled, thanked Happy again and bade the man goodnight; he kicked the door close. He fumbled with the lock, his grip on Natasha precarious as he tried to balance her weight and use his hand.

"If you drop me, Rogers, there'll be divorce papers in your hand tomorrow, understand?" she growled. He flushed and managed to lock the door.

"Didn't drop ya," he said, bit breathless and kissed her. "See?"

"Lucky for you." She pressed herself closer to him as he went to their bedroom. He set her down, undressed her (kissing her skin as he did so, despite her protests) and got into bed himself. He yawned, looping his arm over her shoulders and pulling her close.

"Love you," he whispered.

"Love you too," she said. "No more talking," she added, he chuckled, spooning her. "Though it's good to be home."

"I thought you said no more talking?" he couldn't help but smirk. "Though I agree." She elbowed him in the gut. It hardly hurt, in fact he didn't even feel it but he grunted all the same. "Meanie."

"You're a terrible liar," she mumbled. "Next time it'll actually hurt." She pressed herself closer to him. He smiled, kissing her nape. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the night settling over them, comfortable and familiar. Her breathing evened out and he felt his own eyes slip close. He was home in bed with his _wife_ after their honeymoon. He couldn't be happier and nothing, _nothing_ was going to ruin this.

He should have known better. Should have listened to his mother when she told him about tempting God. They had been home for maybe an hour or two — if he had to guess — when one of their phones went off. He opened his eyes, trying to figure out who's phone it was. Natasha shifted in his arms and sat up.

"I'm going to kill whomever is calling," she groused, getting out of bed and padding towards the front door to get her phone. "Nobody will find the body, _ever_. I swear—" she finished the sentence with several Russian curses and answered the phone with a curt: "Romanoff."

Steve tried to not feel irked by that, but he did. While Natasha had changed her civilian name to Natasha Rogers, she didn't do so professionally. It was better because it meant less paperwork and it hid the fact that they had gotten married from their enemies (in theory, he was still amazed how fast things traveled via the internet). "Nat?" he called after a few minutes of silence. He sat up when she didn't answer. "Nat?" he said again. More angry Russian and the harsh glare of the bedroom lights a moment later. "Jesus, honey," he hissed as he shielded his eyes.

"I think murder is too nice," she said, voice beautiful and serene as she lugged her suitcase into their bedroom. "I think some torture and maiming are in order." She opened her suitcase and began taking out her clothes and the souvenirs, tossing them onto the bed in a haphazard fashion. "Feed the corpse to the pigs so there's no body, scrub everything with bleach."

"Natasha," he sighed, rubbing his face. "Mind filling me in?" he asked, peeking at her through his fingers. She softened, smiling at him. By the look on her face, he must be adorable. She went to the closet and began to pull out a few clothes and her sleek black catsuit.

"Clint's stopping by to pick me up," she said, a chipper note in her voice. He frowned as she put bullets and guns into her suitcase, a box of Widow's stings landed with a metallic clatter. He furrowed his brow. "We're going to have a brother-sister outing in Mongolia." She spun around and put her Bites in last before zipping the entire thing up. "Good thing I didn't get a chance to unpack from my honeymoon."

His eyes widened as his sleep addled brain put everything together. "Oh, Natasha. I'm… I'm sorry."

"Fury's dead," she said tightly. "I'm going to kill him and if you tell anyone, I'll have to kill you too."

"I won't, I swear. Cross my heart," he said and crossed his heart. She smiled at that, but the tears welled in her eyes anyway as she came over to him. He hugged her, kissing her cheeks and lips. "I'm sorry."

"I know. Fury said he was sorry, but you know how his apologies are."

"Robotic as if this is what us normal people say in these situations?" he asked, trying to get her to laugh a little. "Hey, at least you'll be able to sleep on the plane."

"Not the same as sleeping in my own bed with my husband next to me," she said as she looped her arms around his neck. His hands settled on her waist and smiled. "I was looking forward to your pancakes."

"I was looking forward to lazing in bed tomorrow with you," he said and kissed her collarbone. "Kissing you, tickling you, making love to you."

"Didn't you get enough of that in Japan?"

"Nope." He grinned. "Don't think I'll ever get enough of that face you make when you come." He squeezed her sides. She laughed, smacking him and kissed him, long and deep. He gave a soft moan, hating the break the kiss. "You need to get dress. I'm sure Clint'll be here any minute."

"Yeah." She kissed him again, breaking the contact, got dressed against. He watched her, heart aching that something like this happened _right after_ their honeymoon. Evil never slept, and he guess that was true. Natasha was Black Widow and they both were on-call twenty-four seven. Still, he wished the bad guys had waited a bit longer. There was a knock on the door and Natasha lugged her suitcase to the door. She opened it.

"Did you guys _just_ get back?" he heard Clint asked and Natasha growled something in response. He sighed, getting out of bed and pulling on a pair of sweats. Natasha looked unhappy and Clint looked miffed that Fury would do something like this to them. "Hey Cap."

"Clint," he said. "And yeah, we did. Japan was fun."

"I bet." Clint gave him a cheeky grin. "Sorry to be stealing your wife so early but duty calls."

"Eh. Evil never sleeps," he said and kissed Natasha goodbye. "Call me when you land?"

"Yeah, unless we have to go silent, then I'll text you or something beforehand, kay?" she looked at him and patted his board chest. "You make sure to tell the other girls you're married and off limits." She smiled. "Lillian's working for Stark now, don't need her asking for a date. I can't be plotting more murders."

He and Clint both gaze amused chuckles. "Okay, but you know me. Lip rings aren't my thing." He pulled her into a kiss and tight embrace. "Come back to me," he whispered, "fight to come home to me."

She smiled, love and adoration in her eyes. "I will." She cupped his face, running her thumb along his cheekbone. Clint gave an awkward cough. "Bye, Steve," she said, pulling away and dragging her bag behind her.

"She'll be fine," Clint said. "I'm with her."

"I know and that's why I worry," he said, watching as his friend and wife leave. He closed the door with a tired sigh, locking it. Everything felt hollow and empty now without her. He twisted his wedding band, a nervous habit he was developing before he went back to bed, hoping Natasha wouldn't be gone too long.

* * *

It had been a week since they got home, a week without his wife. A damn week feeling like his wedding — which had been plastered on every magazine cover, social media page and celebrity news channel, despite all the measures they went to _prevent_ such publicity — had never even happened in the first place. Steve Rogers wanted his wife back. He prided himself on being levelheaded, patient and cool under pressure. He was a soldier, he knew how to keep his emotions from messing with what needed to be done. Yet he was letting his emotions affect him. He was unhappy, and it showed. It was subtle, a bit more snark in his replies, some grunts and silent nods, avoiding people. He tried to keep busy.

He hung out with Tony and Bruce, catching up on sci-fi flicks he missed in the seventy years on ice. He and Sam went out on culinary adventures, caught a couple of Broadway plays; consulted on military matters for the CIA and the Army. Hell, even Fury called him once to get his opinion on something. When he asked about Natasha, Fury had said that she was fighting Mongolian Death worms. He knew Fury long enough to understand that was sarcasm and he wasn't going to get any more information out of her.

When he wasn't hanging out with his friends or talking to the top brass of government agencies, he wandered New York or drew, but mostly he went to the gym. He found solace there. He used the one at the Tower, less chance of people staring as he benched 500 lbs as a warm up. Less questions about why he needed a small pyramid of punching bags. Today, however, he wanted to feel like a normal person (who was he fooling, he never had been a normal person). He went to the gym near his apartment, it was a little after five o'clock so there wasn't a lot of people and he had the gym more or less to himself. After weight training, he went and began to lose himself in the rhythmic patterns of boxing. The give of the punching bag beneath his fists, the way it swayed with each hit. Mind numbing and, in a way, therapeutic. Sweat beaded at his hairline, trickling down his neck and the corners of his face. He vented his frustration at hi situation — newly married with his wife outta town — on the bag. Someone cleared their throat, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"You're really going to town on that bag," the guy said, "rough day?" He pulled the towel from his neck and began to get ready for his own work out. Steve nodded.

"Yeah," he said, catching the bag and steadying it. He took a few deep breathes and began to punch the bag in a halfhearted manner, watching the new comer. "My wife's on a business trip," he said and resumed a faster pace, driving his knuckles into the leather of the bag as the mere fact Natasha wasn't at home waiting for him or here, working out with him, galled him anew. "I miss her."

"Thank goodness for the business trip," the guy muttered. He caught he bag again and stared at the man, flummoxed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked. The guy stared at him, imploring him to put the pieces together and when he didn't, the stranger gave an exasperated sigh.

"It's just… the way you were going to town on that bag," the man said, "I just… I'm just… I'd hate to see what happens when you don't miss her."

"I'm still confused," he said. He didn't understand what him beating a punching bag had to do with Natasha gone. He loved her, he wanted her home, he was frustrated he couldn't hold her and sing Irish folk songs to her loudly and badly offkey, watch cheesy romcoms with her or just be with her. It was better than punching the walls of his apartment, cheaper too. "What does my work out have to do with me missing my wife?"

"Well, you're frustrated right?"

"Yeah." That was rather obvious considering how he was beating the bag.

"Because you miss your wife, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"There you go," the man said. "I'm happy she's on that business trip, she probably is too."

"No, she's not," he said, "she's upset about it." He was getting hungry and found the man annoying and a bit creepy.

"That poor woman," the man said as Steve gathered up his things. "Doesn't know anything but men dominating her. Probably started with her father and now it continues with her husband."

It clicked, suddenly and sickeningly. Steve dropped his bag and walked over to the man, catching his punch with ease and pulling him a little bit away from his punching bag. "Listen _pal_ ," he said, "you don't know me, and I don't know you, but I'll give this to you straight: I would never _ever_ hurt my wife. I love her."

"Of course you do," the guy said with a bit of a sneer in his tone. He clenched his jaw and let the man go. "Surprised you even let her have a job, let her go on a business trip."

"You got me pegged wrong," he said, knowing if he lashed out he'd be feeding right into this guy's delusions. He picked up his bag. "See ya." He walked off.

* * *

He stopped by a tiny Chinese place and ordered enough food to feed an army. The little old Chinese lady didn't question it, but her daughter arched a brow at the amount of food and he gave her a dazzling smile. She smiled back with a tiny blush and handed him his two bags of food. He thanked her, tipped handsomely and left. He got home, sighing when he saw it was dark. Natasha wasn't home yet. He set the food on the counter and took a shower. He grabbed a box of lo mien and a fork, plopping himself on the couch to watch the ballgame and hope that his next phone call would be from her informing him she was on her way home.

He was half way through a box of sweet and sour shrimp when a knock sounded. He frowned, setting down his dinner and got up. He opened it, surprised to see two officers at his door. "Can I help you officers?" he asked, sleeping shabby in a pair of grey sweats and a form fitting spandex workout t-shirt. Both men looked at his bulging biceps and then at their own arms.

"Yeah, uh… can we come in?" the taller of the two asked. Steve nodded, letting them in. He closed the door and leaned against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. This caused his chest, arm and shoulder muscles to bulge further.

"Did I do something wrong gentlemen?" he asked, thrown for a loop as to why police officers would show up at his house. He was glad that his shield was in his bedroom, he didn't need them to know he was Captain America. "If I did, I'll come down to the station for questioning, no problem."

"No, no," the shorter officer said. "We can ask you a few questions here, if that's okay with you?" Steve gave a curt nod, his frown deepening. "Is your wife home?"

"Not at the moment, no," he said, "she's on a business trip. She'll be back tomorrow. Why?"

The two officers looked at each other, the taller swallowed and he noticed sweat beaded at his brow. It bothered him that they were nervous. "It's just we got a tip—"

The door knob twisted, the door opening, and Natasha walked in, dragging her suitcase. She looked haggard, her catsuit torn in a few places. There was a cut on her brow that had been taped together, a smaller one on her chin, grime on her cheeks and dark circles beneath her eyes. She looked like she needed a shower, dinner and a solid twelve hours of sleep. "Steve?" she asked, looking at the two officers. "Did you _do_ something while I was gone?"

"No," he said, coming over to press a welcome home kiss to her brow. "They were just telling me why they're here." He gestured to the police officers. She gave them a level stare.

"Good, because I want to know why cops at in my home, interrogating my husband when I come home from dealing with Mongolian death worms."

"Aren't those things like… an urban legend?" the shorter officer asked and Natasha fixed him with a withering glower; he swallowed loud enough to hear. "S-Sorry."

"Ma'am—"

"Natasha," she said.

"Alright, Natasha. We uh… got an anonymous tip that there was domestic violence here." At this she and Steve both shared a look and then frowned. "We just came to… well, y'know, make sure things were all kosher here. Your husband, he uh…" the officer glanced at Steve's muscles. "He never hurt you has he?"

" _What_?" Natasha hissed, walking up to the officer. "Are you suggesting my husband _hits_ me?"

"Ma'am we're just—"

"Do you have _any_ idea who he is?" she said, gesturing to him. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

"Ma'am, I—"

"Holy shit," the shorter officer said, eyes going wide as he got a good look at Steve and Natasha. "You're Captain America and Black Widow! Todd, it's Cap and Widow!" The man flushed.

"You're right Jeff," the taller said. "Oh, I'm so, so sorry Mr. Rogers erm… Captain Rogers?"

"Mister's fine. And it's okay," he said, waving his hand and giving a lopsided smile. "As you can see—"

"It's not _okay_ , Steve! Some idiot is implying that you abuse me and sent cops on us! You tell whomever it was that he has never raised a finger against him in violence," Natasha said, "and now I want you out of my house now! I'm in no mood for this! Go or I'll call your superior!" The two officers nodded, bid them a goodnight as they stepped around her suitcase and out the door. Natasha snorted like an enraged bull. " _Ublyudki_ ," she growled, and looked at him. "Hi, honey I'm home."

"I see that," he said, his lips quirking into a smile. He pulled her into a hug and kissed. "I bought Chinese, go wash up and join me on the couch, I'll get a plate together for you."

"Mm, you're sweet." She kissed his cheek. "I missed you."

"I missed you too."

An hour later, she was tucked into his side, content and eating greasy Chinese food with him as they watched _The Italian Job_. The movie ended and he looked down at her, expecting her to be awake. She wasn't, instead she was asleep. He chuckled and set their plates on the table, picking her up and heading to their room. He tucked her into bed and pulled his shirt off before crawling into bed. She cracked an eye open. "Hey."

"Finally, you get to sleep in your own bed, next to your husband." He tucked some hair behind her ear, smiling when she smiled.

"About damn time," she said and pecked his lips and snuggled into his broad chest. He wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her head. "Sing to me?"

"You hate my singing."

"It's not that bad when you sing softly," she said, eyes closing. "Sing me your favorite song."

"Took the words right outta my mouth," he chuckled and leaned back to turn the lamp off, plunging the room into darkness. He hummed, finding the melody, running his hand through her hair and he smiled a little as her eyes began to droop close again. He began to sing, the rich tenor of his voice vibrating in his chest. " _I wish I was on yonder hill_ _,_ _'tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,_ _till every tear would turn a mill_ _._ _Is go dté tú mo_ _mhuirnín slán…_ "

* * *

 **I got this idea from a post on tumblr about how a guy went to the gym and noticed another guy going to down on a punching bag. Guy #1 asked if Guy #2 had a rough day, and Guy #2 said he was because his wife was on a business trip and missed her. #1 said it was a very Steve Rogers thing to say.**

 _ **Well**_ **, some on tumblr took it as to mean #2 was some kinda wife beater and he was frustrated because his wife was not around to punch. Thankfully, the majority of people took it as a guy that dearly loved his wife and was frustrated because she was gone and he couldn't do cutesy adoring husband things for her.**

 **The song Steve sings at the end is my favorite Irish folk song Siúil A Rún (translation: Walk My Love). I want Steve to sing more, because I can see his mother doing chores around the house singing folk songs from Ireland. So if you guys know any good Irish folk songs, please tell me because I adore the idea of Steve singing in Irish.**

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 **Silent readers, I love you guys!**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	8. The Only Thing

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

James' cry broke the silence of the apartment; Steve's eyes opened and he groaned, flopping his arm over his eyes. He was bone weary, which was saying something since the serum staved off fatigue, allowing him to require less sleep than a normal person. James cried louder. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he grumbled, getting up and trudging to the nursery. He flicked the lights on, squinting in the harsh brightness and went to his nine-month-old son's crib. "Easy buddy," he said. He was standing, dressed in a fuzzy onesie with Captain America plastered all over it, big fat tears rolling down his pink chubby cheeks. Bruce had said the earliest babies start walking was around nine months. James hadn't taken any steps yet, but he was standing every chance he got. Clint and Laura both warned him and Natasha about him become mobile. "Bad dream?" he asked as he scooped up his son, large hands going around his tiny chest. He felt his bottom; the diaper was dry. "C'mon, time to go back to bed." Steve whispered, cooing and shushing and rocking, one hand patting James' tiny back.

It amazed him how small and fragile James was. He could feel his son's shudders and hiccups beneath his hand and feel the tears against his neck. This was the first mission Natasha had since becoming pregnant and it was taking longer than the projected two weeks. He was worried — it was like a slick oily substance that coated his stomach and made everything taste sour — but he couldn't let it show. James was preceptive for an infant and fed off his emotions. So, he buried his worried beneath all the smiles and jokes and happy daddy he could project for James' benefit. "C'mon, buddy, back to bed," he said again, but James refused to settle down. He sighed, wishing Natasha was here. "Please James, Daddy's tired," he whispered. That was saying something. James only wailed louder and he pulled his son away from him and ran a thumb along the baby's mouth. James tried to latch on. "Hungry, of course." This was another bane he had to face since Natasha left: James hated formula. "Let's see if we can get you to eat something."

Natasha had pumped enough breastmilk to last two weeks. James went through that quickly (his own tiny serum enhanced body requiring a lot more food than the average baby), so that left formula. Specially developed formula to feed a child with a super soldier and a super spy as parents, who also happened to have both his parents' serums. Only problem is James didn't like the formula. And that put Steve in a pickle he hated dealing with. He went to the kitchen, boiling the water and mixing it in a bottle. He tested a few drops on his tongue, deemed it warm but not too warm and sat down on the couch. He flipped the tv on to some late-night reruns of shows he never seen, this one happened to be _I Love Lucy_. "C'mon James," he said, offering the rubber nipple. James turned his head away. It was too late for this and he didn't want to deal with this right now. "James, c'mon this is all you're getting until Mommy comes home."

James whimpered, pushing the offered bottle away. He didn't want to get the anatomically correct fake boob that Bruce made for him in case Natasha was gone. James whimpered again, he felt like crying along with his son. "Please, James, eat for Daddy. You gotta eat, you're hungry." He looked down at his son, poking his tiny pink lips with the bottle's nipple. "Please." If anyone saw a sleep-deprived Captain America reduced to groveling at his infant son, they'll laugh. James cried again, Steve slipped the nipple into his mouth, but the baby turned his head and it popped out. He set the bottle down and lifted James to his shoulder, rubbing his son's small back. "You gotta take the formula, James. Just until Mommy gets back, then you can have all the milk you want."

James whimpered, tiny hands balling into fists and pounding against Steve's shoulder. It didn't hurt, not really, but James was stronger than normal babies and Steve winced a bit. "Shh, James, shh." He rubbed James' back. Something funny happened on the tv and the laugh track echoed in the room. This was going to be another sleepless night and all he wanted was Natasha to come home and deal with James. He nuzzled his son's soft strawberry blond hair, drinking in that baby scent. "Please, Jamie, eat something. The formula's not that bad." He picked up the bottle, cradled James in his arms and tried again. James screamed, kicking the bottle right out of his hand. It clattered on the ground, the top popping off and formula soaked into the carpet. He closed his eyes and took several calming breathes before setting James down to pick up the bottle and clean up the mess. He glanced at his watch, it was two in the morning, James had been crying for thirty minutes. He finished cleaning up and tried to get James to accept the bottle again.

No luck. His son continued to wail, unhappy. He picked up his phone and thought about calling Tony or Sam or Bucky. Of his three options only one had kids, but Sam didn't know how to deal with cranky super babies. A sound came from the door. "What now," he growled, setting the bottle down, he scooped up his son and grabbed his shield by the door, leveling the vibrainum disk at the center of his chest. He was aware that taking his screaming son into combat was a piss-poor idea _but_ he was tired.

The door opened and Natasha appeared. She gave a gasp, noticing Steve and his shield. "Steve!"

"Oh thank goodness." He lowered his shield, James clinging to his shirt and hiccupping. "You're home."

"Explains why I'm leaking," she said, glancing at the wet spots on shirt. "Did you use up all the milk?"

"He's been ravenous since you left," he said and handed the screaming baby over to her, and closed the door. With practiced eased, Natasha set her bag down, slipped James beneath her shirt and shifted her bra out of the way. She gave a sigh when he began to suck. He walked up behind her, unclasping her bra to give her some comfort. "Hi, glad you're home."

"Good to be home. Hope he wasn't too much trouble." She kissed his cheek and he was happy to wrap his arms around her waist. She shifted James and he let her go sit on the couch.

"Nothing I couldn't handle, he doesn't like the formula though." He joined her, pulling her close. "I missed you," he said.

"I missed both of you, it was… different. Being out in the field again. You and James were the only things I thought at night," she said. "I just wanted to get it done so I can come home to my family."

"You're home," he said and kissed her cheek. "You're home."

* * *

 **Enjoy.**

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	9. Wearing Your Clothes

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

Victoria's Secret's color scheme of pink and black was obnoxious. He also couldn't stop blushing as stared at the mannequins dressed in lacy bras and matching panties. The pop music was a dull buzzing sound in the background and all he could think about was how no man (at least none that he talked to) back in 1940s Brooklyn would go and buy bras. Yet, Tony had suggested he get Natasha something nice for their first Valentine's Day as a couple.

Steve took that to mean as a box of chocolates, maybe one of those Vermont Teddy Bears dressed as Captain America (he thought those were really cute), and cook her a nice dinner, have a bottle of wine and Netflix and chill. He and Tony had very different ideas of what _nice_ meant. Tony's idea was this. It wouldn't be so bad if it was just him and Tony (the billionaire playboy genius philanthropist kept most of the women off him), but then Thor had to express his interest in this holiday that honored his good friend Freyja, and he wondered if Jane would appreciate a romantic gift. Tony being Tony agreed to let Thor tag along.

So, they were standing in Victoria's Secret, with the entire store's collection of women ogling them. He had managed to find one of Natasha's bras and panties for their sizes and was currently trying to figure what the difference was between a Bombshell, So Obsessed, and a demi bra was, all while trying not to cringe in embarrassment or gag at the price ($55 for a bra!). "Do Midgardian women typically have breasts this size?" Thor asked, holding up one of the larger sized push-up bras and pressed it flat against his chest. A clerk came over and asked him if he needed help and Steve breathed a sigh of relief at that. He walked further into the store, trying to find something that Natasha would like.

They had been dating for three months, had sex a few times and all he ever seen her wear in way of undergarments were items made by Fruit of the Loom. He liked that simplicity of it and she did too. He didn't think she needed a $55 bra and panty set to be happy. Tony laughed at something and all the girls gathered around him did too. He swallowed and went back to looking at the selection of ladies' underthings. He picked up a lacy thong. "Great choice Cap!" Tony shouted, from across the room — the collection of women turned to stare at him — and he dropped the thong back into the pile. He heard his name whispered among the women around Tony and a few drifted closer to him, as if he was some wild exotic animal. He flushed, ears turning pink. He wished Natasha would appear and save him from this, but he had told that he and the guys were going out to do 'guy things' and that they'll be back in a few hours, she smiled at him and told him to have fun and enjoy himself. He was a terrible lair and Natasha knew that, so there was the off chance she'd not believe him and be his lady in white and save him.

"Definitely not enjoying myself," he muttered as he picked up a pair of boy shorts, wondering if Natasha liked wearing these. He glanced at Thor who had several bras draped over his muscular arms in several different styles ranging from simple cotton with some lace to flashy ones with seed pearls and sequins and other sparkly things. He also had several different types of panty in his big hands. The Asgardian Prince grinned, nodding at everything the clerk said and Steve kept his mirth to himself, knowing that Tony was going to spend a small fortune on this outing (he had generously offered to buy anything Steve and Thor found). He went over to Victoria's Secret's Body collection, smiling a little as he touched the soft cup of the bra the mannequin wore.

"It's a favorite," a woman said, she had a name tag and a headset on. "Good every day bra. Great support and super comfy."

"Oh, thanks," he said, "I'm not sure uh… what she erm… likes." He flushed, staring and the rumbled scrap of paper in his hand that had Natasha's sizes written on it. "Never shopped for bras before."

"It's okay, we get a lot of guys like you in here," she said, "though none are as cute as you or blush like you about this." Steve felt his cheeks heat further. "I'm Stella."

"Steve Rogers," he said, it was a reflexive habit, introducing himself in that manner. He saw Stella's eyes widen and pressed a finger to his lips and gave her a wink. She smirked, knowing she'll have some sort of points over her fellow employees by helping Captain America pick out bras and panties for his girlfriend.

"Do you know what bran she normally wears?" Stella asked. "And her size?"

"I do." He handed her the scrap of paper. "I think she wears Fruit of the Loom, but I can't be sure." He flushed again. "I mean, I've taken her clothes off and well, I just… I'm n-not paying attention when… well, _you know_ but… I uh… it's cotton… I think?" Stella stared at him with a blank expression on her face. Good job Steve, another foot-in-mouth moment. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Just wanna get her something nice, cause she's my best girl." He tapped his toe against the floor, his feet more interesting than the girl helping him or the bras.

"And that's what we'll do," she said, beaming at him. "By the sound of it, I think she'll like a Body, maybe a Perfect Shape." She waved him over to another counter, clicking her tongue as she looked for the right size. She pulled open the draw and Steve was met with a riot of color and patterns. A lot had hearts and kisses considering the holiday, but he was drawn to the good old fashion black. Stella watched him, pulling out the black bra with a butterfly style lace pattern on the cups. "Can never go wrong with black. Does she wear white often?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "She doesn't." He picked a soft green one as well, smiling as he ran his thumb along the material. "Panties?" he asked.

"Right, so we have some here, but if you want a better selection we have more over there. You can mix or you can get the Body panties. Which are here and she's a" — Stella glanced at the paper — "and we have her size." She patted the pile of panties. "Does she like thongs? Cheekinis? Hiphuggers?"

"I uh…" he swallowed, "I don't know." He thought of Natasha in her cat suit, and how the leather would stick to her perfect ass. He swallowed, blood rushing south at the mental image. "Cheekinies?" he phrased it as a question. Stella smiled, pulling out a black and green one. He accepted them. "You can head up to the checkout. Mention my name, kay?" she winked.

"Will do, thanks for your help, I appreciate it."

"My pleasure," she said, "not every day I get to help Captain American pick out lingerie for his—"

"Girlfriend," he said, giving her that half-smile Natasha said made him look adorable. "She's my girlfriend."

"Well, this mysterious woman is pretty lucky to have you has her boyfriend," Stella said and went off to help another costumer. He beamed at the two bras and their matching panties. The price was still a bit insane, but he figured it would be alright considering—

" _Holy hell Thor!_ " Tony bellowed, drawing his attention. Thor had every bra in the store, along with some sexier lingerie pieces and matching panties for every bra. "I'm not paying for _all_ of that. I said get Jane something nice, not buy her Victoria's Secret."

"I am unsure as to what she likes. I figured she'll like one of everything, so she can make her own choice." Thor looked at his bra laden arms. "I do like the ones that sparkle, but I don't think they are practical for every day wear."

"This is lingerie for Valentine's Day, it's not about if its practical or not. It's about seeing your girl in sexy underthings and then taking them off." Tony rubbed his forehead. "Put some of this stuff back."

"I do not see how this is about love," Thor said as Tony shoved him to put the majority of the items.

"It's not. It's about getting laid and buttering up your lady friend in order to get that," Tony replied.

"I'll tell Pepper that then," he said, smirking. "May not be too happy come Valentine's Day."

"I have something nice for Pep!" Tony hissed, shooting him a glare. "A nice evening and everything! I know how to treat my woman right."

"Uh-huh." Steve smirked, as the shorter man began to try and convince Thor that Valentine's Day was about both getting laid and expression love and that he had to put the bras back. He chuckled, moseying over to the checkout counter. He thought about getting some perfume or lotion for Natasha, but he could hear her tell him she'll never wear it because it leaves a scent. He picked up some red and pink lip gloss as well.

"Fine everything okay?" the cashier asked. He nodded as he handed over his items.

"Fine, Thor! Three things! Do you have any idea how much these bras cost?" Tony shouted.

"But you're Tony Stark."

"I know who I am, and yes I can afford it, but I'm not going to explain to Pepper why I have a thousand-dollar expense from Victoria's Secret on my credit card."

"That'll be $150," the clerk said. He pulled his wallet out and handed over the money. The girl arched a brow at the bills but said nothing. She rambled off about the special offers, wrapping up the bras and panties in tissue paper and putting them in a bag with ribbons for handles. He thanked her, taking the bag and heading over to wear Tony and Thor stood.

"I'm all set," he said, looking between Tony and Thor. "We ready?" He smiled, ignoring the way Tony glared at him. "Just go with the Body. It's nice and soft, she'll like it. Good every day bra."

"And how do you know so much about women's undergarments?" Thor asked. He shrugged, smirking (more to piss of Tony than anything else).

"Had some help," he said. "I'm starving, so I'm going to head over to Panda Express and get some food."

"I too shall join you," Thor said, setting down his collection of women's undergarments on the nearest counter. A clerk gave him an annoyed look. "I do enjoy the feasting at the Express of the Panda!" He threw his beefy arm around Tony. "Come, Stark! We shall dine at the Express of the Panda! Though Jane tells me they only eat bamboo, so I'm curious as to why you named the cuisine of the Chinese people after an animal that only eats plants."

Steve hid his chuckle behind his hand as Tony was hauled out of the shop by an enthusiastic God of Thunder. "It's okay Tony, we can go to the electronics store next," he said, trying to make Tony feel a bit better. Tony grumbled something and pushed Thor's arm off him.

* * *

He got back to his suit of rooms in the tower, smiling as headed to the door. A green light flashed as the sensor registered him. He stepped in and his eyes almost popped out of his head. Natasha was laying on his bed, feet in the air and crossed at the ankles. She was eating popcorn, watching a romcom. "You know," she said, sparing him a quick glance, "you kinda look like Rob O'snake."

"Are you wearing my clothes?" he asked, hiding the Victoria's Secret bag with his jacket. She looked down at herself — dressed in the SSR t-shirt Shield had dressed him in when he woke up from the ice and a pair of his boxers — and nodded.

"Bruce wanted to show my something and Clint tagged along and there was this explosion" — she munched on some popcorn — "and this purple goo went everywhere, and I had to take a shower." She sat up, he noticed that she wasn't wearing a bra; he dropped his jacket and the bag walking towards her. "Your suit was the closest to the lab, so I bored your shower. JARVIS coded me as one of the acceptable people to enter your room when we started dating. Anyway, all my clothes were in mine and—" she gasped when he kissed her, cupping her face in his hands. "Steve."

"I'm not getting my clothes, back am I?"

"Maybe if you ask nicely," she said, he leaned back but she had worked his dog tags free, preventing him from going farther than the chain allowed. She had that playful look in her eyes. "Tell me I've been naughty," she cooed.

"Particularly devious," he purred, kissing again. She giggled against his lips. "Gonna have to take these off and teach you a lesson."

"Kinky," she said, "I'm curious now cause you're rather vanilla."

"Is that a bad thing?" he asked, easing onto the bed, and pulling her close. "I like vanilla."

"No, just that sex is rather tame."

"You did steal my clothes," he said and kissed her again, slipping his hands beneath his shirt that she wore. "Gotta teach you that stealing's bad."

"Borrowing," she said, sighing softly, "with every intent of returning." She grabbed the flipper from the nightstand and turned the tv off. "Now, shut up and kiss me Rogers."

* * *

 **And no sex.**

 **Happy Romanogers Week.**

 **I actually looked up the prices for a bra at VS (online), and there are about $55 and the panties are $15. So two lip glosses being $5 each, comes out to $150.**

 **This was fun to write.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**


	10. Take My Hand

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

Hands. Hands had always been important to Natasha. She made her living by studying hands. As a palm reader she had seen so many hands. Old hands, worn with age and a life time of stories. Thin and knobby knuckled with thick blue veins and soft papery skin, speckled with liver spots and fingers that shook. These hands knew the hardship of the world, in cruelties it vested upon people. They were strong hands though, enduring life's hardships, and they were always gentle for they understood the value of kindness and compassion. She found so many wonderful predictions in the old hands that she read.

Young hands told different stories. Young hands untouched by life's hardships, hopeful and arrogant in some cases. Strong and firm or slender and delicate, some had scars (and they always were interesting to read), others were flawless and unmarred with fancy nails and glittering rings. Others had images tattooed, the colors and symbols jumping out of their skin. She would smile, tracing the lines on their hands, telling them their future or rather what they wanted to hear, her grandmother told her that palmistry is not so much the art of foresight but that of hindsight, a person's palm changed as they grew. The young hands she saw seemed to favor her grandmother's assessment. She would charge the going rate of fifteen dollars a reading. She gave them an experience, slathering on her Russian accent, the silly get-up with the beads and the feathers and the incent. The tourists lapped it up, the local hippies and occult enthusiasts did too. She made enough to buy groceries and pay her bills, so she didn't complain.

Hands were her life, but her hands told a different story. One of a harsh childhood in Russia — Volgograd to be exact — and fingers that plucked and teased wallets of rich men from their pockets, slipped rings and jewels from their rich wives. Silent crafty fingers that pawned their findings off so there were some extra rubles for her family to buy a loaf of bread while the communist regime crumbled all around them. Hands that knew a family only to lose it, forced into a dark criminal underworld, where they learned more skills, deadly skills. How to pleasure and tease only to slay without a sound. A touch, a flutter of the fingers, luring men and women to their deaths, plucking the strings of life like a spider. Her hands knew only warm slick feeling of blood, until hands just as bloodied as hers pulled her out, brought her here and cleaned the blood from them.

Her hands built a new life in Brooklyn, working as a palm reader and seller of fantasy theme knickknacks and used books. The CIA agent that saved her would stop by from time to time, his hands speaking what he could not, asking her hands if she was alright, if she needed anything. Always kind, always caring, always worried about her. Her hands told him what her words did not. How she was scared and unsure; yet felt freer than the wind here and safe from the world she left behind. He would leave with a book or a knickknack, and his hands would promise he'd come back to check on her.

It had been several weeks since Agent Barton came. Several weeks since their hands spoke to one another, and her hands yearned for the friendship of his. Today, however, was gloomy and her hands remained idle. Nobody was out wandering and looking for touristy thrills. She flipped a page of the book she was reading, one hand drumming against the green velvet of the table cloth she used. Izzy and Dino slinked around her shop, two guardian shadows, bemused at her and vexed at the rain. "Looks like nobody's coming boys," she said, looking at the cats. They blinked at her, Izzy flicked his tail and Dino gave a yawn. She smiled. The bell over the door chimed and in stumbled a man around her own age. He was tall, board shouldered with a narrow waist; handsome in that perfect Ken doll way. His had a well-kept beard and hair mussed from the rain. The rain had soaked him.

"Shit." He set his items down, destroyed paintings. She frowned, feeling a bit sorry for him though she didn't say anything. She never had someone run into her shop without realizing that it was a shop. She set her book down at her feet, laying her hands flat on the table and watched. He continued to fret over the ruined pieces of art and looked around. Their eyes met, and she noticed he had vivid blue eyes, like that of the sky. "Oh, uh… hi."

"Here for a reading?" she asked, a little smirk on her face. She liked him, especially his hands. Strong and big, with slender fingers: hands of a pianist or an artist, maybe even a surgeon. She wondered what stories his hands could tell. "It's on the house."

"I uh… I don't believe in this stuff," he said, gesturing at her table and her goods for sale. "Sorry."

"Not everyone does," she said, "it's okay to be a skeptic. It's more about the journey than the destination."

"Now I know you're a fake. I heard that somewhere, maybe read it in a book." He came over to the table though, and her smirk widened. He was intrigued and had settled his hands on his narrow waist.

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand and staring at him, trying to puzzle him out by how he held himself. He was confident in his abilities though not so much his social skills, his clothes were well worn (maybe even second hand) which spoke of a life with little money, but they were clean and he smelled of cedar and cypress. There was something beneath his Brooklyn accent, another one she couldn't place, something Gaelic by the lilt she heard that would bleed through. "Sit, it's free and no belief is required," she said, gesturing to seat. He bit his lip, thinking and decided that there was no harm and sat down. He set his hands down on the table, drumming his fingers.

"No crystal ball?" he asked.

"Nah." She shook her head. "Looks tacky and there is no magic behind it." She held her hand out flat. "Hand?"

"No magic in this either," he said and gave her his right hand. She snorted a little bit, hoping he was going to be a leftie, but took his hand anyway. She ran her fingers over his palm, letting her hand become familiar with his. His skin was smooth with notable callouses on his thumb and first two fingers. His hand told her of his love for art, the feel of paper against his fingertips, how bringing images to life one line at a time gave him a thrill. How shading with charcoal was an art in and of itself. A failed dream to study art in Paris; this his hand whispered to hers in a sad tone.

"Divination isn't magic," she said, giving him a smile. "What's your name?" she asked, studying his palm. Her hand coaxed his to talking, telling her of his life in a way his words could not. A hard life standing up to bullies twice his scrawny size; how he had hit the gym as a teen and fell in love with boxing (though his first love would always be baseball). "Don't be shy."

"Steve."

"Steve," she said. "Nice name."

"Thanks. And you?"

She thought about giving him her stage name: The Mystical Black Widow, but his hand spoke to her about how he valued truth and honesty. "Natasha," she said. She hummed, her hand asking his questions. His hand spoke back, telling her of his life as a soldier, of his best friend since childhood and a tragedy that befell him. "You lost someone?" she asked, tracing his life line. "This mark here speaks of a great lost."

"Yeah," he said. "I did." He pulled his hand away, and she frowned. "Look, if you aren't going to tell me my future then I should go. I don't want to hold you up."

"Palmistry isn't about the future," she said, "and you aren't." She studied his hands, how they clenched into fists only to relax. They spoke of anger, but not directed at her, frustration that had its roots in circumstances surrounding his life. The life that they guarded from her, untrusting of her hands to understand. "But if you want a future I could take a few guesses."

"Well, it is on the house."

"You lost someone recently, someone you cared about, and this has set you upon a crossroad. Do you either go forward and accept the lost or stay put in the past and dwell." She cocked her head, which his hands would share their secrets with hers. "You're prior military, you dress neat and keep wearing a high and tight style which is typical of a servicemember that found it good for a wash'n'wear style." She leaned back and drummed her nails against the table. He remained impassive but his fists had tightened, his hands upset that she had guessed correctly. Her hands itched to speak with his, their conversation cut short. "You're also heartbroken, someone left you or something and you no longer believe in love."

"You don't know me."

"I don't have to," she said, "I read palms, tell people what they want to hear, get paid." She leaned back. "Pays the bills so I'm not complaining." She spoke these words with her voice but her hands told her true story, and his fists unclenched, listening to hers. "You seemed harried, coming into my shop without realizing it was a shop."

"I uh… well my paintings are ruined," he said, and his hands expressed his sadness better than his words. She smiled, hands always spoke truth when mouth and tongue could weave lies. "Had an um… never mind, it's not important." He waved his hand in a manner that was the opposite of his words. A buyer maybe, an important one that could launch his artistic career. "I'm still waiting for my future."

"What do you want to hear?" she asked. "Love? Life? Successful career? A wife and house with a white picket fence and the two-point-five kids?"

He barked a laugh and his hands told her about the love he lost, the woman with blond hair and dark eyes. How she strung him along only to break his heart when he needed her the most. How that was after coming home from overseas with his crippled friend. "That's a dream. How do you have two-point-five kids?"

"Have a third one and chop it in half," she said, quirking a smile to let him know she wasn't serious. He shook his head at that. "What do you want now?"

He bit his finger, tapping his fingers of his other hand. His hands told her that he wanted a home, a love, where things felt real and he could feel safe, love. Where his heart wouldn't get broken and people wouldn't take advantage of him. "A million dollars."

"Don't see that in your future, sorry," she said. He leaned forward, cupping his hands in front of him. Guarded and wary but intrigued, his left pinky sticking out. "Want me to lie and say you win the lottery?"

"Isn't that your job?" he asked with a quirk of his brow. His hands wanted to understand her hands, wanted to know they held so much secrets. She flushed, forgetting that hands spoke to each other and as she touched and traced his, asking his hands questions with her own, his hands had done the same. They wanted to know why she was caught up in her melancholy, why they dripped blood no matter how hard she scrubbed. "To predict stuff like that?"

"No." She leaned forward, putting her hands over his. "You're going to marry a woman that was unexpected, a woman you never thought you'd find or who could love you. She'll need saving in some way."

"I'm not a hero," he said, "never was, never will be."

Lies, his hands told hers. He was a hero, despite how he blamed himself. His friend was alive, better alive with three limbs then dead with four. "Some will say otherwise."

"Those people are liars," he said. "Not sure about you though."

"Never called you a hero."

"You got me there." He smiled. "How do I meet this woman?"

"You run into her, unexpected but welcomed."

"And how will you know who she is?" he asked, and she smiled when his hands fell, allowing hers to nestle into his palms. His thumb stroked her knuckles, and the action washed away a bit of blood. His hands knew the answer. Hands always knew things before head and heart, it was why they guided the body through the world. Every casual touch, ever breath of the wind on a warm summer day, every spray from raindrops or salt-sea, every cozy sense of heat from a fire or firm grip of a loved one, the softness of a blanket or cat fur. The hands knew so much and they spoke to each other with touches, sharing what they knew with the world and what their heads and hearts dreamed and wanted.

"Your hands will," she said. "They'll reach other and take her hands, whisper softly to them and tell her hands it's okay now, she can stop running, she can stop crying in the darkness, screaming that she can never be broken even though she was." She licked her lips, squeezing his hands. "And your hands will comfort hers, share their secrets with hers. Bit by bit they'll come to understand each other more so than the head and the heart ever could."

"My hands huh?"

"Yeah." She smiled when he squeezed her hands back. "Your hands."

* * *

 **Well, who know this prompt would be so hard. Normally I'll find this prompt kinda easy but apparently not!**

 **Anyway, I watched Before We Go. I really enjoyed it, it reminded me of what I wrote for school. Very lit fic-y. Chris Evans is a good director. Though I'd cut out the hotel kiss as I felt it wasn't needed. The kiss at the end felt more powerful.**

 **Also, I'm not sure which hand is Steve's dominate hand so I went with Chris Evans' dominate hand (Chris is right handed btw).**

 **Last prompt later today.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**


	11. Run Away with Me

_Run Away with Me_

The Rockies loomed ominous and foreboding ahead, their peaks snow-capped and turning a vibrant shade of lavender as the sun began to set, it's golden rays spiking between the crags. It was warm, the windows of her little Volkswagen bug rolled down and the fresh rare came in bringing with it the scents of grass and pine. Natasha took a deep breath, enjoying the smell and the straight endless road of this Montana backroad. The prairie was giving way to forest. She didn't know when she'll stop, maybe when she hit Spokane or Seattle, but for now she was going to enjoy the drive. Her camera in the front sit next to her and her equipment in the back seat. She had up and left New York and headed west, looking for something to spark her creative drive again.

Montana was big and open, the sky a beautiful shade of blue, the western edge turning a ruddy golden orange. It was only three-thirty and the sun wouldn't set for another five hours, she had plenty of time to find a motel in one of the small towns and bunk down for the night. She turned up the radio when her favorite song came on. She hummed along, watching the miles tick by along with the faded billboards advertising intriguing locations. A vintage looking sign — 40s style art, faded paint, some bird poop splatters here and there — declared that the town of Hope Springs was only twenty miles ahead, with a population of a thousand and a handful. She was confident that she could find a motel there and a nice mom and pop restaurant and continue on the next day.

The deer bolted from the edge, she screamed, slamming on the breaks as the animal halted, staring at her with wide stupefied eyes before bolting back in the direction it came. "Stupid fucking deer," she grumbled and stepped on the gas and her car lurched forward. There was a sputter and a bang and then it died. "Damn it." She turned the key, trying to get the engine to start up again, her car hummed to life for a moment or two before dying again. Grumbling, she got out and popped the back of the car, coughing as smoke billowed up. Something's stuck, she thought and looked at the engine, unsure if she should poke it or not. With a sigh, she closed the trunk and pulled her phone out. She got some cell reception and called AAA, spoke on the phone for a few minutes before going back in and turning on her distress lights and waited.

A few cars passed by, giving her a wide berth, none bothering to stop. One guy flipped her off. "Yeah, fuck you too," she said, flipping him off as he drove on in his big pick-up truck. "Fucker." She went back to playing Bejeweled on her phone. She liked the Zen mode, it was a good time killer. It was four-thirty when another truck came rumbling towards in. The truck was a handful of years old, purchased in the last decade if she had to guess; white and stained with mud and grease with the words _Captain America's Roadside Assistance and Auto Repair_ blazon in patriotic colors. It stopped a yard from her car and the drive got out. It was a young man, in his late twenties or early thirties if she had to guess, dressed in cowboy boots, faded blue jeans and a white t-shirt with some grease stains and a faded bald eagle on it. He wore a camouflage hat that resembled one of the eight-point military hats (only without the octogen shape). He wore a pair of aviators and was whistling as he walked towards her.

"Hi!" he waved a large hand with slender fingers, she eyed his arms, corded with tendons and muscle. He stopped in front of her. "You're the girl whose car broke down?"

"Took ya long enough to get here," she said, and he flushed, ears going pink as he kicked a pebble. A car rumbled pass leaving them bathed in the scent of the pavement and exhaust. A dove cooed in the distance as the sound of the car faded.

"Sorry, was busy." He walked around her bug, looking at it. His accent was familiar, not a Montanan accent, somewhere back east though. He lifted his cap up, scratching at his blond hair before jamming it back onto his head. He asked her to pop the trunk and she did so, watching him as he looked at the engine. "Seems to me like something got stuck or your battery died."

"I figured that," she said. She could tell there was more coming as he straightened, closing the trunk. "Can you fix it?"

"Sure, I can fix it," he said, "gonna need to take it back to the shop though, maybe a few days if I need more parts. You in any hurry to get anywhere?"

"No." She smiled blithely at him. He nodded, hands on his hips — he was a perfect Dorito shape — and chewed his lip. "Something wrong?"

"Nah. Just gonna turn around and hook your car up and we can head into town, we'll take her to my shop."

She nodded, stepping off the road as he went back to his truck, turning it around and backing up to her car. He got out again, hooking her car up to the towing part of his truck and hitting a button, craning the car up onto its back wheels. "Well, that's that," he said, double checking to make sur he didn't miss anything. "Get in," he said. She nodded, heading to the passenger side and a furry head popped up. A little gasp escaped her throat when a caramel and white dog popped up, sticking its black nose at her twitching in excitement and its pink tongue stuck out in an attempt to lick her. "Dodger!" he shouted, opening the driver's door and reaching for the animal. "Dodger, no bad dog," he said and hooked his fingers into the dog's collar and yanked him back. "Go on, get in the back seat," he grumbled, manhandling his pet into the back seat. "Sorry about that, he likes to come, falls asleep in the car."

"Didn't expect a dog," she mumbled and got into the seat the dog was moments ago. The dog nudged her elbow with his nose, looking at her with big brown eyes. She gave the dog an awkward pat and buckled in. He did too. He started the car and it rumbled to life, after a moment they rumbled onto the highway.

"Didn't get your name," he said, after a few minutes of silence. "I'm Steve."

"Nat," she said, giving him another faux smile.

"Short for something?" he asked, as she slipped her shoes off and propped her feet up on the dashboard. "Feet off the dash, please."

She hmphed, taking her feet off the dash and gave him a genuine smile. "And yeah, it is." She watched as Dodger gave up trying to be her friend and went over to his master, worming his furry head beneath Steve's arm. He rubbed the dog's ears as he drove. "You from around here?"

"Nah, from back east, came out here after the Army. Just… y'know, had to get away," he said.

I do. "Yeah," she said. "Is that how you got Captain America—"

He laughed, and she realized she liked that sound. "Yeah. Went and made myself into a big damn hero, my friend — Bucky — started calling me Captain America and it just stuck. Helped that I was a captain, but still." He grinned. "Kinda lame if you ask me."

"Don't think so," she said. "Very American." He laughed at that. "So what brought you out West?"

"Bad break up," he said, "got a dear john letter and well, it was just a nasty break up and I needed a change of scenery." He looked at her, an inviting expression on his face. "Not that Brooklyn isn't beautiful but" — he shrugged — "you know."

She did know, it was why she was heading west as well; minus the nasty break up. "Sorry about that."

"Eh, it's life. Moves on," he said, slowing down as they came closer to the town. "Found this place and set up shop with Bucky, he came with me too. Thank god he did. Would've been terribly alone out here without a familiar face."

Aw, damn, he's gay. "Well, I'm glad you and your boyfriend are uh… enjoying life in Montana."

"My boyfriend...?" Steve asked, and then barked a laugh, slapping the steering wheel. "Bucky isn't my boyfriend. Nah, he's like a brother to me."

"Oh." She looked at him. "So that break up was with—"

"My girlfriend, well… ex-girlfriend, Sharon." He shrugged, the town appeared. It was quaint, weatherworn wooden buildings and some stark grey concrete or brick ones in between. Almost every front lawn had a flagpole and flew the national flag and below it the state one. She spotted several buildings with the stick supporting the National Rifle Association.

Definitely, not in New York anymore.

"It's nice here, though the people are pretty tight-knit," Steve said, breaking her thoughts. "I know a few people, but I really just talk to Bucky and Dodger." He patted the dog's head. "Still, I like it here."

"That's good," she said, looking around as Steve pulled to a stop light. It turned green and he made a right down a two-lane road. They left the main part of the town and into a more wooden section, mixed with some shops and houses (and combinations of the two). At the end of the road in a clearing was the mechanic shop. A circle with red-white-and-blue, a white start in the heart and the same title as on the side of Steve's truck, below it with a red star superimposed on a field of silver was the words: _Winter Soldier Pawn and Trade-Ins._

"Your friend a pawn broker?"

"Yep. Makes good money and sometimes tv show people come through to look at his stuff," Steve said as he drove into the garage. He turned off the car and smacked his forehead. "Aw, jeez, should've dropped you off at the motel. Sorry."

"It's fine, I can walk."

"No, it's at the other end of town." He turned the key and the truck rumbled to life. "I can't believe I forgot and—"

"Hey, you're back," a man said, he had blue-grey eyes and lanky brown hair that was pulled back into a tail at his nape. She thought it looked rather greasy as if he hadn't washed it in a while, plus the days' worth of stubble on his face didn't lend him any points in the I'm-not-a-creepy-backwoods-loony department either.

At least Steve's clean shaven, she thought glancing at Steve. "It's fine, I can walk."

"Who's the girl?" the man asked.

"Her car broke down, the one AAA contacted me about," Steve said. "Nat, this is Bucky. Bucky, Nat."

"Sup," Bucky said. "I'm closing up shop, Yvonne's got dinner ready. You coming?"

"Nah, you go ahead," he said and flashed her a grin, "can't abandon a lady."

"Oh please, I can take care of myself," she said, wishing she had just kicked the engine a few times to see if that had dislodged whatever was wrong it instead of this. Steve seemed like a nice guy, but Bucky screamed psychopathic axe murderer. It was a remote location with dense forest all around, perfect for shallow graves that Bucky could go back and visit and relive his kills of innocent redheaded victims from outta town. In fact, it was the perfect set up: nice wholesome as American pie best friend, who was a mechanic and he gets the calls to pick up the hapless girls and then at night Bucky takes them out to the woods and chops them up and buries them. This was starting to feel like a bad horror movie or _Far Cry 5_ (minus the crazy cultists). She just wanted to get outta here.

"It's a long walk," Steve said.

"I can drive you, my cousin's house is on the way," Bucky said, jerking his thumb over at his beat up Honda Accord. She arched a brow at the car that looked that had seen at least two hundred thousand miles.

Probably keeps his bloodstained axes in the trunk. She smiled. "Nah, I'm good, I'm serious about walking."

"It's a long way though and some of the folk here are kinda rough," Bucky said.

"I'm from New York," she said with a shrug.

"So are we and but this is a different type of rough," Bucky said and pulled his keys out fo his pocket. "Well, suit yourself. See ya Steve." Bucky headed to his car and drove off. Steve looked at her.

"Are you sure you don't wanna go to the motel? It's nice. Clean and free wifi and breakfast."

"I can walk," she said.

"Sorry, but I'm not letting you walk that far." He backed the truck up, twisting around to look out the back.

"Where do you live?" she asked. He stopped and gave a nod. "Can I stay with you?" He stopped the truck and took off his aviators. The breath caught in her throat at the sight of his blue eyes, bright as the Montana sky.

"Are you flirting with me?" he asked. She smiled, leaning forward a bit.

"Is working?" she asked, a smirk on her lips as his cheeks heated up. "I'll promise to be a good girl" — she let a little bit of teeth show and worried her lip just a bit — "or a bad girl if you rather have that." Dodger whined and licked her face, she sputtered, pushing the dog away and spitting out to get the taste of dog tongue out of her mouth. Steve laughed and pulled into his garage.

"Okay, fine. I'll set up the guest room for you," he said, "but only for tonight." He turned the car off and got out, Dodger scrambling over the front seat and jumped out, fluffy tail wagging. She followed, looking around at the tools and cans of grease, the vintage American signs and the classic motorcycle in the garage. There was dusty picture, she wiped away the greasy dust to see a woman and a man, the woman was wearing a wedding dress and a pretty Catholic church was in the background. She looked up when Steve came to stand beside her. "My parents," he said, "Da died before I was born, Mam raised me on her own. She died right before I joined the Army."

"I'm sorry," she said, turning away from the picture. "You must miss them."

"Miss Mam, never knew Da so—" he shrugged. He lowered her car from the back of his toe truck and popped open the hood, so she could grab her bags. "Grab what you need, I'll show you the guest room."

"You're sweet," she said as she grabbed her bag and closing the hood. "For letting a strange woman stay with you."

"Well, you aren't an axe murderer… I don't think," he said with a teasing grin on his lips, "so I'll be safe. Plus, Dodger likes you so that's always a plus." He walked to the back of his garage and she followed. He unlocked the door and lead her into his house. It was small, cramped, a stack of magazines supported the three-legged couch and there was a pile of canvases in one corner, some painted and others not. Pictures hung on the wall, paints and charcoal sketches of landscapes and wildlife. A beat up looking fridge and a rickety dining table and chairs.

"It's uh… quaint," she said, sitting down at the table. He shrugged and went upstairs. It was gone for a few minutes before returning.

"It's all fixed up."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Ever thought about running away?" she asked. He didn't answer, getting things ready to start cooking. It wasn't until sausages were sizzling in the pan and water boiling for noodles.

"Yeah, a few times," he said. "But never did it."

"If someone asked you to run away with them, would you?"

"Depends on the person."

"If I asked you to run away with me, would you?"

 **I give up. This was supposed to have sex. But blargh, it didn't. Cause reasons and ugh**

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	12. The World Moves On

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

It was late, pass eleven o'clock. James was asleep, she had finished her shower and was standing in her bedroom with a towel around her head and a white fluffy robe on, glaring at her husband. He had just gotten back from being gone for six months, his clothes grubby, his dirty shield propped against their closet door. He looked tired and haggard, in need of a shower and a good lay. He was getting a shower, but not the other part. No way in hell, not after the stunt he pulled. "Run that by me again?" she asked, toweling her hair dry. Steve sighed, rubbing his face.

"Bucky is staying here."

"Yes, I got that, but you do realize that your best friend tried to kill you on several occasions, left you to drown in the Potomac—"

"He pulled my out!"

"Debatable," she said, "and we have a year-old son?" she arched her brow, daring him to defend this rational behind having Bucky stay with them. "Don't you care about your son's safety?"

Steve gave an aggravated sigh. "Of course, I do, Nat." He went over to her and pulling her into a hug. He was warm and safe, smelling of sweat and corn chips. "I want him safe just as much as you do, but I'm not putting Bucky in a lunatic asylum," he said, his voice firm and his gaze broke no argument about that. She felt her eye twitch, pulling away from him sharply to get dress. "He's my best friend, Nat. I… I have to do something."

"He'll be safe there. He'll get treatment there. Stark assured you he'll get the best psychiatric—"

"By strangers! They'll shove pills down his throat or strapped down and… and… tortured! He's been through seventy years of that shit, I'm not letting him go through it again." He came closer to her, and if she was any other woman she would be intimidated by his six-foot-two and two-hundred-forty frame of solid muscle coming towards her, but she was Black Widow and had taken down men like him before (granted none of them had super soldier serum flowing through their veins but still, the laws of physics still applied to Steve, maybe not to his shield, but definitely him). "He's staying."

"Have you thought about Yasa? He's only one and" — she glared at Steve when he groaned — "What?" she snapped, feeling her temper rising. She thought about that emotionless void within her, where she kept all her emotions in neat little boxes. She tried to stuff her growing anger into the box for it, but it was growing larger by the second. "What _is it_ , Steve?"

"I wish you'd stop calling him that," he said, "it's not his name."

"Yes, it is. It's a nickname for Yakov, which is his name—"

"In _Russian_."

"I'm _Russian!_ " She pulled her pajama pants up with a quick jerk, shooting him a glare as she pulled her top on. "I can damn well call my own son by his name in _my_ native tongue." She watched as his shoulders tense then slumped. This had been a sticking point between them ever since they found out they were having a boy. She had acquiesced to naming their son James, if she got to give him a middle name. Yet, she had yet to call her son by the name his father chosen for him, instead calling him be a variety of pet names or the Russian equivalent. Bruce said he didn't see a problem with it as Steve used their son's given name in equal amounts, though he did warn they'd have to settle on a single name soon. It had been five years, but Bucky's actions against them were still fresh in her mind and it made her skin crawl that Steve insisted on naming their son after him. So, she dug in her heels and refused to use it. "It's still the same name."

Steve snorted. "You know what Bruce said."

"Bruce can go to hell for all I care right now," she said, "he's not staying." She brought the conversation back to the original matter at hand. His eyes flashed, and he put his hands on his narrow hips.

"I'm not abandoning him, Natasha. I failed him in '45 and I failed him in 2014, I _am not_ failing him again, he's staying."

"Then I'll take Yasa and go to the Tower. Our suite is baby proof." Her face was a mask of calm and she gathered up her phone and keys, she had clothes for her and their son at the Tower, considering Pepper was their primary go-to babysitter when the Avengers needed to assemble. She walked towards the door, passing Steve. His hand shot out, clenching around her bicep, she winced. She looked at him, one brow raised, daring him.

"You are not taking my son," he growled, eyes chips of eyes. "Bucky won't hurt him."

"Let go of me, Steve." He unclenched his hand, freeing her arm, and she didn't leave the room. "Do you even care? That man—"

"Is my best friend!"

"— is a murderer."

"So are you," he countered. Ice settled in her stomach at that, she swallowed, the corners of her mouth twitching downward. For as long as she knew him, he never stooped so low as to use her past against her. Then again, she had opened the door by going after Bucky in such a fashion. "But you didn't have a choice, and neither did he."

She gave him a sardonic smile. "We all have choices, Rogers," she said. "Just like you chose to abandon me for six months, chasing after Barnes across Europe with another woman at your side."

He blinked, slack jaw and taking a step back. "Are you accusing me of something?" he asked, disbelief in his voice. She shouldn't go here, she knew Steve and how he was fiercely loyal to her. He was a good man, a good husband, a good father. She shouldn't be insinuating something like this. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

"If the shoe fits."

All the fight left him; he sat on their bed, smacking his hands together and looking like she just kicked his puppy. He looked at her, tears glimmering in his eyes. "Nat, I would never, I _have never_. You are my wife, my love, the woman I want to be intimate with. No one else. None. Never. I've kept my vows." He bit his lip, twisting the ring on his finger. "Sharon had information, she helped us. That's it. She's a friend… not really that, a colleague."

Guilt chilled her. She knew how important Bucky was to him, how saving his friend meant so much to him. She looked at her wedding ring, white gold with diamonds inlaid, her engagement ring had some filigree with a single raised diamond. It was beautiful, he even had it engraved: _grá leat go dtí deireadh an ama._ She thumbed it; she set her phone and keys on the vanity, going over to him. "Steve—"

"I don't want to fight Nat," he said, looking at her. "I'm sorry. I'll take Bucky to the lunatic asylum tomorrow and… and…" he swallowed. "I'm sorry." She sat next to him and pull his head to her chest, running her fingers through his hair and kissing the crown of her head, feeling him wrap his arms around her waist. "I'm sorry, Nat. I'll make it right."

She was being unfair to him, she realized. She was being petty and jealous and taking it out on Steve. They had spent a year looking for Bucky after Shield fell. Steve, Sam and her, had trekked across Europe, through Russia, only to turn up empty handed. She had comforted Steve after they realized that finding Bucky was trying to catch air, had been there at Steve's side when Peggy died. She had come to enjoy the exclusiveness she had to Steve, she was his best friend (better than Sam and Tony), now his wife and mother of his son. Bucky coming back threw a wrench into it, and she was jealous and possessive. "I'm sorry, Steve," she said, "I'm being a bitch."

"No," he said, struggling to sit up. "Don't say that. You're not a—"

"I am," she said, quirking a smile, nuzzling the side of his nose. "I'm jealous. I'm jealous that you and Bucky are such good friends and I feel that he'll… replace me."

"Replace you?" he frowned. "Nat… Bucky can never replace you, nobody can replace you. You… I _love_ you. You're the mother of my son, my wife. Nothing can take that away from you." He smiled. "Nothing."

She sniffed, bowing her head, the tears welling up in her eyes. "I know and—" she stopped when she heard a knock on the door. She and Steve looked in the direction to see Bucky standing there, rubbing his metallic left hand.

"Bucky." Steve let her go and went to him. "What's up?"

"I heard you two… well, not everything but—" he swallowed, rubbing his metal hand. "I can leave," he said.

"No," she said before Steve could. Things changed, the world moved on, but she and Steve were forever. She knew that, should have realized that sooner. She came to stand by Steve's side. "No, Bucky, you can stay. I'll go set up the guest room downstairs for you." She smiled at him and then at Steve. "I'm sure Steve wouldn't mind letting you use our shower if you want to get cleaned up. We can go shopping tomorrow and get you somethings if you'd like."

The relief in Steve's eyes and the acceptance in Bucky's was palpable. "How about that, Buck? We can go to the corner store, well… Wal Mart and pick up some things for you."

Bucky chewed his lip, seeming to hesitate about it. She knew that feeling, the strangeness of being accepted, of being _wanted_. She took his left hand and squeezed it, surprised that he was watching it. It only then dawned on her than Bucky wouldn't have any actual nerves in his metal hand, just electrodes that connected to his flesh and blood body. His arm functioned like an arm, but he couldn't _feel_ anything. To have a left arm yet not a left arm at the same time… "Alright," he said. "That… that sounds like a plan."

"Good." She patted his hand, with a smile and it took him a moment to squeeze her hand. She left then to go make the guest bed up with some fresh sheets, moving around some of the boxes. She smiled when Bucky came down wearing a pair of Steve's pajamas (dorky ones with Captain America all over, a gag gift from Tony). "All set up," she said, beaming at him. He nodded, setting his clothes down in the corner. "In the morning, ask Steve to borrow some things. You're about his size."

"Everything's a little big though," he muttered. She nodded, Steve was boarder in the shoulders than Bucky was. "Thanks though."

"No problem," she said and rubbed her arms. "I'm sorry," she said. "For what I said. I… I know what it's like," she said. Bucky looked at her, tilting his head a little. "Leaving, having red in your ledger and feeling the guilt."

"Ah."

"You learn to live with it. It gets… more manageable every day. Especially when you have someone to lean on."

"You don't have to do this," he said, "make me feel accepted just because of Steve." He looked away, staring at the window, at his reflection in the glass and then down at his metal hand. "I'm everything you say I am."

"Steve doesn't think so," she said. "Steve could have killed you that day in the helicarrier" — she smirked, thinking about how Clint could have killed her like he was ordered to — "he made different call."

"But was it the right one?"

"Steve seems to think so." She smiled at him. "And I trust Steve's judgement." Bucky didn't say anything. She lingered for a moment before going to the door. "Oh, and you'll meet him tomorrow."

"Who?" Bucky asked.

She flashed him a grin. "Your nephew." She left before Bucky could press her for more information.

* * *

She had gotten James ready the next day. Steve had gone down to make breakfast and to be with Bucky. "Good morning, James," she said, it felt good calling him by his actual name, using his Russian name felt more like doing it out of spite than anything else. Spite for a man that was a victim in machinations beyond his control. Her son looked at her with his father's blue eyes. "That's right baby," she said, kissing his forehead. "Morning time. We have a new friend to see today."

"Dada?" James asked, his eyes lightening up at the prospect of meeting his father after not seeing him for six months. "Dada?"

"Yes, Dada," she agreed, James squealed in delight, dancing in his crib. He had two bottom teeth and his top teeth were starting to come in. "And someone else." James stopped, staring at her with unbridled curiosity. She smiled, lifting him from his crib and changing his diaper. She put on pair tiny sweat pants a little pull over with his father's shield emblazon on it. Then she brushed his hair before taking him to the rocking chair and nursing him. Bruce told her she needed to start thinking about weening him. It hurt her to think that her son was getting too big for nursing. She'll miss these quiet moments between her and James. Softly, she spoke to him in Russian, recounting a fairy tale her grandmother had often told her.

She took him down stairs once he had finished nursing. He was tense in her arms, sensing that something was different in the house, his tiny hands balled into her shirt, eyes fixed to her in order to gage her reactions to whatever new was going on. Bucky was sitting at the table with Steve, both were eating pancakes and bacon. "There's Dada," she said, pointing to Steve and James grinned at the sight of his father. Steve beamed at the sight of them, getting up and coming over to her.

"Hey Jamie," he whispered, cupping his son's small head in his large hand. "Want you to meet someone," he said, slipping his hands beneath James' tiny arms. James protested at being picked up, his tiny hand reached for hers and she took it.

"It's okay baby, go with Dada," she said, kissing his little palm as Steve settled him against his chest. James whined.

"Mama," he said, looking unsure. Steve cradled his head, pressing reassuring kisses to his son's soft cheek, murmuring soft words. She nodded to James, and watched as her son settled into his father's arms, his tiny fists gripping Steve's shirt. They headed to the table, where Bucky sat, looking pale and unsure.

"Bucky," Steve said, standing by his friend, grinning like a fool. "This is my son," he said, "James."

She couldn't help but grin when Bucky's jaw dropped, his eyes growing shiny with tears. He looked at her and she nodded. "You… you named him after me?"

"Of course, we did," she said, grinning, "Steve wouldn't consider anything else. When we went to the ultrasound done to determine the gender and found we were having a boy, he touched the screen and said James." She giggled when Steve flushed. "He's been James ever since."

"Wanna hold him?" Steve asked. Bucky paled further, torn between crying and fainting. "We trust you, right, Nat?"

"Of course," she said. Bucky swallowed and held out his hands. Steve pried James' fists from his shirt and placed their son in Bucky's arms. James looked unsure, he stared at her as if she would magically make everything better. She nodded and smiled, putting her hand on Bucky's shoulder. It was enough to reassure James that this new person was a friend and the baby offered the broken soldier a tentative smile.

"Hi, little guy," Bucky said, his voice thick. "I'm your uh… Uncle Bucky?" he glanced at her than at Steve. They both nodded. "Your Uncle Bucky. How about that huh? Pretty cool?"

James gurgled, babbling, his eyes fixed on the metal fingers that pressed against his stomach with a gentle firmness. He grasped one, tugging it to his mouth and put it in his mouth, glancing at his mother as he gummed it. Steve laughed, she shook her head wanting to reprimand James but afraid to ruin the moment. Bucky sat stunned into silence. James giggled, grinning wider, and Bucky broke then. Tears spilled from his eyes and he held James close, mussing the boy's soft strawberry blond hair.

She looked over at Steve when she felt his hand on the small of her back; he pressed a kiss to her temple. Their son's simple acceptance of the limb that symbolized so much pain, blood, suffering and death for Bucky was potent. James didn't know that Bucky was the Winter Soldier, that he had tried to kill Steve, hurt her, and did countless other terrible things. All James knew was that Bucky was his uncle and his parents liked him and he had metal fingers to chew. James' love was a balm for Bucky's tattered soul.

* * *

 **Omg! I did it! I did all five days! Wooo!**

 **Last time I did something like this I think I was in high school doing the first Zutara Week.**

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	13. Glue and Duct Tape I

**MCU (c) Marvel  
**

 **Trigger Warning: Depression, attempted suicide**

* * *

 _Bop… bop-bop_. Rhythmic. _Bop… bop-bop-bop_. He lost himself in the motion, the sound of fists meeting leather. The feel of the unyieldingness of the sand. How his muscles strained, putting more and more power. It was never enough. He needed more, more, _more_. At some point the sounds of his fists hitting the bag turned into the _ba-eck-tat-tat-tat_ and the _burp-urp-urp-urp_ of gunfire, the whine of weapons beyond the ken of science. Bucky's screams as he fell from the train. The tears in Peggy's words as she promised him a dance that never was, a dream unfulfilled. Chitauri zipping through the skies of New York, blasting laser weapons at all humans in their path; Stark flying the missile into the wormhole. The glint of sunlight on metal, drawing his eye to the red star on Bucky's left shoulder and his unfeeling gaze. Metal meeting flesh, cracking bones — _you are my mission!_ — "Steve?" Jab after jab, his blood thrumming in his veins, lungs taking in great amounts of air, sweat beading at his brow. He didn't feel the ache in his muscles, they didn't cry out for him to stop. "Steve." _Peggy, this is my choice. I gotta put her in the water_. The rush of frigid sea water, the stiffening of his muscles and the creeping darkness wrapping cold tendrils around his body as the Valkyrie slowly sank into Neptune's aquatic realm. "Steve!" A breath of a touch on his back, tearing a war cry from his throat and he swung around at whomever was foolish enough to sneak up on him.

Even pregnant, he was amazed at her reflexes. Natasha took two light steps back, her right hand dropping to the gentle swell of her belly and her left ready to grab his fist. It took him a moment to focus on her surprise and worry; his chest rose and fell. "Nat… Oh God, Nat, I could've hurt you." He wiped the sweat from his brow, running his hand through his hair. The hook supporting the punching bag groaned, the bag swaying and then it fell, the seam at the top busting open, sand hissing out from the hole.

"JARVIS, have someone clean this up, please," she said, glancing up at the ceiling. The lights brightened and there was a gentle beep.

"Of course, Natasha," the AI said. He stooped picking up the broken bag and placing it against the wall. They had been staying at Avengers Tower ever since Natasha had hit the thirteenth week mark. Bruce thinks that this… he hesitated calling it a baby, but it was a baby — _his_ baby — could actually make it to full term. Not only would this child be the first documented instance of Erskine's serum replicating organically but also Helen Cho's Cradle technology working to repair highly damaged female reproductive organs. Both would be boons for science. The latter pleased him more than the former. "Captain, do you wish to know the results of your work out?" JARVIS asked.

"No." He shook his head, trying to shake the frazzled feeling, trying to ground himself in the here and now. "No, JARVIS, thank you though." He walked over to the bench and sat down, staring at the wrappings on his hands. The snowy woods, the gun fights, orders in both English and German, snowflakes falling on sightless viridian eyes, blood staining the pure snow crimson. If only they'd fallen face down, it would've made it easier to say goodbye. The keen of men gutted by grief forever lingered in his ears.

"Steve," Natasha said, her voice drawing him from the memories, her touch grounding him in the present. "Is everything okay?"

"How are you?" he asked, sitting up straighter and undoing the wraps on his hands. It felt better this way, burying his pain. His mother had too much to worry about when he was a boy, burdening her with his troubles was something he felt she didn't need. "Sorry I woke you up."

She gave him a blithe smile. "I'm a light sleeper, you know that." He leaned into her touch when she fussed with his hair. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Don't you think I slept enough when I was frozen?" He gave her a wry smile as he tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. Ever since coming out of the ice he had trouble sleeping. He told the doctors at Shield he didn't need much sleep thanks to the serum. It was a half-truth, he did need sleep, he just wasn't getting all the sleep he required. Too many nightmares, too many memories to shift through, too many ghosts from the past to reconcile. "How many years has it been since I was thawed?"

"A few," she said. "You did a lot during that time. Saved the world once or twice." She gave him a wry grin.

"Got married." He looked at her as he took her hand and gave it a squeezed. His shoulders slumped as he stared at her belly. A baby was in there, his baby. A new life with the serum that coursed through his blood. Well, not a perfect copy. According to Bruce, the child had Natasha's Red Room serum. A perfect combination, half of each serum. Bruce had explained that the combination of the serums was a possible reason for Natasha's miscarriages. Something about incorrect combinations causing the potential child to be unviable. He couldn't follow the science very well.

"If you're having trouble sleeping, maybe—"

"I'm not," he said, leaning into the touch of her hand on his cheek. "I'm fine. Don't need much sleep."

"You have that look in your eyes." The concern in her voice bothered him.

"What look?"

"A lost look. You're spending too much time in your head, Steve. You need to get out of it." She smiled. "Do you want to touch? The baby's moving. Little flutters." She took his wrist, but he pulled his hand away. "Steve?" she asked. "Are you okay? Are you happy?" The worry in her voice was akin to salt in a wound. It stung, painful and bright; guilt coiling in his stomach. "I mean, this is what we wanted. We both agreed and—"

"I'm… I'm happy, Nat." He rubbed his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes before putting a smile on his face for her benefit. _Her pregnancy is high risk, Steve, she needs a low stress environment. She's depending on you for a lot of that._ That's what Bruce had told him, grave sincerity in his words. How can she depend on me when I'm a walking disaster? My head feels like a burning house and I'm pretending everything is normal. "I'm real happy Nat." He put his hand over her stomach, splaying his fingers in a protective gesture. "So happy."

The day after their wedding, Fury had told him that some bad people began to whisper about any potential children resulting from his marriage to Natasha. He taken note of the information but didn't worry: children weren't a factor in his marriage. Then Sam had his daughter, and that kicked started _baby fever_ as Tony dubbed it. They had met with Helen and Bruce in secret, the four miscarriages kept under wraps. Now, pregnant for the fifth time with a child that could be born; he and Natasha went out for a nice stroll. Fury came to him last week with a blurry but recognizable picture of him and Natasha, a red circle around her stomach. "They know, Cap," the ex-Shield director said. That had been all he needed to move his budding family into the Tower. At least here he had Hulk and Iron Man as back up.

He still hadn't told Natasha. "You're not with me Steve," she said, breaking him out of his thoughts again. "Maybe we need to get outta here. Go take a walk later today or ask Tony if we can take his jet to the Bahamas or—"

"We're not going to the Bahamas, Nat," he said, "you're pregnant. I read somewhere that you can't fly after so many weeks."

"And I can tell something is eating at you," she said. "So, tell me." She smirked. "Unless you want me to get it out of you."

"No." He shook his head. "I'm fine Nat. You know Bruce said you shouldn't be worrying about me."

"Sure, I won't worry about my baby's father," she said, tossing up her hands. He flinched, knowing he shouldn't be pushing her away but this was _his_ problem to deal with. He didn't need her fretting over him when she had so much to worry about already.

Fatherhood. Another thing he had to worry about. He didn't know how to _be_ a father. He didn't have a father type role model growing up. There was Mr. Barnes but he always saw Bucky's father more as an uncle than a father. He tried talking to Tony about what Howard was like as a father, once. Sorting through Tony's snark and bitter scathing commentary of his father; he determined that Howard took his maxim of focusing on work above and beyond what he should have when it came to his son. A dead end. He tried asking Bruce, but Bruce gave him an evasive answer about his father. He still needed to ask Clint, Sam and Thor. "What was your father like? Do you remember him?"

"My father?" she arched a brow. A hum escaped her, and she leaned against him. "I remember him. Let's see… he was a clerk at the KGB office in Volgograd. Bought me ballet magazines so I could decorate my little room with pictures of the famous ballerinas. Did his best to teach me right from wrong" — she gave a sardonic smile at that — "always kissed me good night, took care of my grandmother. Other than that, I don't remember much of him. I wouldn't say he influenced me in what I became." She put both of her hands on her belly. "My mother… defected from the USSR when I was a year old. I never _had_ a mother, Steve. I don't know _how_ to be a mother and yet, I'm going to be one in a handful of months. I'm scared, Steve, but I know it's going to be okay."

"How?" he asked. He didn't know that about her parents. He never asked, respecting the unspoken boundaries Natasha laid out early in their relationship: certain aspects of her past were off limits. She told him enough that he had a general idea: lived in Volgograd until she was eight, trained in the Red Room until she was eighteen, worked as a spy ever since and then Clint saved her, and she became a Shield agent and met him. The finer details he didn't stress over, figuring she'd tell him if or when she was ready.

"Because I have you," she said, smiling.

He frowned, finding his knuckles to be more interesting. No evidence left to show that he had been beating a leather bag for an hour. Strong hands with artist fingers, failure clinging to them like tar. "Maybe we made a mistake," he said, his voice soft.

"What?"

He shook his head, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Nothing," he said, "just got a lot of thoughts rattlin' 'round in my head." He faked a yawn. "C'mon honey, you need to get back to bed" — he glanced at his phone — "it's almost five. You need sleep. If Bruce finds out that you aren't sleeping well—"

"I'm _sleeping_ fine. It's you, who isn't sleeping well." She squeezed his hand. "Have you talked to Sam?"

"I'm fine," he said, standing up and pulling her to her feet. "Completely fine." He pulled her close, smiling at the feel of her belly between them. He ignored the unease in his gut. "I don't need to talk to Sam."

"Even Tony talked to someone, I mean… Bruce may not be the best person to talk to but—"

"I don't need to talk to anyone, Natasha!" he snapped. He didn't raise his voice, his anger was akin to tempered steel, hard and cold. A constant steady pulse. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his noise. "I don't need to talk to anyone."

"Steve, it's okay if—"

"Love, I'm fine. Just got a lot of things rattlin' 'round in my head, right now." He missed Bucky, he missed the Howling Commandos and the rest of the 107th, Colonel Philips, the routine of the military, the familiarity of the 40s, the odd comfort of war.

"When Clint first pulled me out, I didn't want to go see a therapist," she said, "but it got to a point where I wasn't even living. I was existing. So, he took me to see his therapist. Someone that wasn't associated with Shield or the military or any government agency. I still see her, three times a year: March, June and September. It helps."

"I'm glad it helps you, Nat," he said. "I'm just tired right now. Let's go back to bed. Well you go on ahead of me, I have to wash this sweat off me first." He gave her a half-smile, it fell when she didn't return it.

"Steve, I know what it's like to suffer from the mental tolls our lives enforce upon us," she said, taking his hand and kissing his fingers. "I know that haunted look you get when you watch the city. I've seen it in my eyes, in Clint's, even Tony's. And I know it's also okay to —"

"Stop, Nat," he said, "please. I'm fine. I'll be fine. I'll be right here, at your side. Helping you through this." The memories that haunted his nightmares were just that: _memories_. He wasn't depressed, he wasn't suffering from any mental illness. He just needed to adjust to the new time. I've been adjusting to the 21st Century for years now, I shouldn't need any more adjusting.

"Steve, you don't have to carry the world on your shoulders alone."

He swallowed, his eyes itched with the need for sleep, but if he slept his memories turned to nightmares whispering his darkest fears to him. "We all have our crosses to bare, Natasha" — he cupped her cheek, stroking her cheek bone — "this one is mine."

"But you don't have to carry it alone."

"Christ bore his cross alone. As will I."

* * *

Trying to connect the Peggy he remembered to the ailing old woman in the bed before him was like trying to fit a star shaped peg into a round hole. He kept expecting her to tell him it was a joke, remove the wig and be his Peggy again. Or tell him to wake up because this was all just a really bad dream. It never happened. "Steve," Peggy asked, her voice a soft rasp, so alien to his ears. He remembered it soft and sweet, a British lilt to it; in a way it reminded him of his mother's voice. "Talk to me."

"I uh… don't know what to say," he said, leaning forward and pressing his hands together to rest his chin on his thumbs. His eye caught the solid gold band on his left finger _never alone_ etched into in Russian. It was a heavy weight. "Nat's fine. Baby's doing okay. I'm keeping the world safe." He smiled. Peggy coughed and shook her head, the light was still bright in her eyes, she hadn't slipped into a memory…yet.

"Don't try to be evasive with me, Steve. I'm not dead yet." She reached for him and he grabbed her hand, there was still some strength left in her old gnarled fingers.

"Remember that winter, I think it was the winter of '43, just after New Year's and we went stargazing?" he smiled, a jaunting tilt of his head and a boyish smile spread across his face. "We held hands as we crunched our way through the snow."

"Mmm, yes," she said, "I remember. You told me you wanted to draw comics again, after the war."

"Yeah, I did. I knew then, I wanted to marry you," he said. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the unease he felt. The room was hot and stuffy, smelling of disinfectant and decay, the beige and white walls belying the truth of the place, where the elderly die; abandoned by family and friends. The black and white photos of her husband and children sat on the beside but her children never came when he visited, he never met them. Peggy never talked about them and he never asked. "Only… we never got an 'after the war', did we?"

"Steve…"

"Sorry." He shook his head and leaned back in the chair, putting his foot over his leg and holding his ankle. "Sometimes I wish nobody found me," he said. "Just stayed in the ice a few more decades or I actually did die in the ice. Make things a lot simpler."

"Steve, you… I regret you didn't get to live your life, but you've moved on. You're building a life with Natasha, you have a child on the way. You should be happy."

"Am I building a new life for myself Peggy?" he asked. "Or am I just trying to fit new pieces into old holes." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I still haven't found him Peg. Bucky's alive and I still haven't found him."

"You'll find him again, Steve," she said. "But tell me of your baby, any names?"

Names. Christ, he hadn't even thought of what he'll call his baby. At Nat's last checkup they found out the sex of the child. "I'm… it's a boy," he said. Natasha had been more enamored with their baby than he had been. He felt like he detached from his body, watching him and his wife watch the screen with their child. "Nat's thinking about Joseph, after my father. I'm…" he licked his lips.

"What do you want?"

"James," he said. "After Bucky but she's… I don't know Peggy. I'm… I don't think I can do this." He stared at the floor, the carpet was navy with some Fibonacci pattern in a horrid olive green. Discolored spots marked stains from previous patients. Dugan was in a nursing home when he got out of the ice, too far gone to remember much, his granddaughter had politely asked him to leave with a promise that she'd tell him of his visit. He got a message from her a week after telling him Dugan had died. The other Commandos were already dead. Colonel Philips had died in the 70s, and Howard in '91. Peggy was all that remained of those he knew. "It's not fair."

"You of all people should know life isn't fair, Steve."

"I wanted you," he whispered. "After the war… I had plans for us, a—" a dry humorless laugh escaped his throat. "An American dream for us. A nice house, a dog, couple of kids" — he ran his hands over his face — "even a white picket fence."

"Do you love Natasha?"

He hesitated, the weight of his wedding band heavy on his finger. He cried at his wedding, his throat too tight that he couldn't even say _I do_. He nodded instead; his hand shook as he slipped the wedding band on Natasha's slim finger. His heart that day had been full to bursting with love for her. Now... "I loved you, Peggy."

"And your wife?"

"That should have been you."

"Steve."

"Sometimes I want to go to Fury and ask if he can put me back on ice. Just keep me on ice until a few centuries past or what have you. Or never wake me up. I can't do this." He hung his head, he wouldn't allow her to see his tears. "I can't do this anymore. I can't. It's too hard. I can't be a good husband to Nat, I can't be a good father to my son." Tears dripped from his nose. "I'm not strong enough Peggy."

"Steve?" Peggy's voice filled with disbelief and awe. "Steve… you're alive. You're alive."

He wiped his tears and smiled at her. "Yeah. It's me Peggy."

"It's been so long," she whispered, her own tears falling down her wrinkled cheeks. "So long."

He swallowed, ignoring the tightness of his throat. "Well, I couldn't leave my best girl, not when she owes me a dance." He always said that to her and she always cried. A nurse came in around then, telling him visiting hours were over. He nodded, gave a weak smile to Peggy and then left.

* * *

 _Kricker-kacker… kricker-kacker_. "Captain Rogers, can you hear me? Captain Rogers?" a woman was on his chest, a bright light shining in his eyes. People shouting, the sound of wheels over linoleum, tennis shoes squeaking as people ran. "Captain Rogers, can you hear me?" the woman asked again. Bright white lights passed over head, porous ceiling titles in non-descript white, he couldn't feel parts of his body, was he even in his body. "Captain Rogers?"

"Y-Yeah?" it hurt to speak, hurt to blink, hurt to think. He licked too dry lips, his mouth tasting funny — metallic… ferrous, even — where the hell was he? The woman on his chest shouted something to someone he couldn't see. His head felt like a giant pulsating rock. "Where… Where am I?"

"Maria Stark Medical Center," the woman said. "Is there someone you want me to call? Wife? Friend? Girlfriend?"

Something jarred deep in his mind — why was it so hard to think? — a woman with red lips and cascading brown curls. He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on his breathing, trying of figure out why he couldn't feel his toes, why couldn't he feel his toes. "Peggy…" he breathed.

"Peggy? Is Peggy your wife?" the woman stopped talking for a moment. "Captain Rogers?"

"Wife…" he said, eyes fluttering. "… my wife… want…" trying to think made everything dizzy. "Wife…" he repeated.

"Peggy is your wife?" the woman asked. He groaned, eyes rolling back into his head, pain racing along his body. "Captain Rogers!"

"…Nat…"

He was drifting, floating in a sea of white. All around him was endless cold, endless white. Time had ceased to have any concrete meaning, space was a thing of myth and legend. Then he heard them for the first time in what felt like a life time: voices. Hushed voices, shocked voices. _My God, this guy is still alive!_ _How is he still alive? This isn't possible._ He opened his eyes to see a blue-light lit room, people in masks and suits, eyes large and round due to the goggles they wore. He was cold, so cold. He couldn't feel parts of his body. He didn't know where he was. The muffled voices asked him questions, spoke his name, water dripped into his eyes and trickled into his mouth. It stung and tasted of salt.

He tried to say something, ask a question, but the cold was too soothing, too sweet and it lulled him back into its sweet embrace. He closed his eyes, returning to that endless sea of white and he forgot about the voices and their prodding fingers and the heat that called to him to return.

He remembered heat and fear. Strapped into Dr. Erskine's pod with the vita-rays radiating his body. The serum transmogrified him. His bones breaking and grew growing, his muscles increasing and changing, his heart thundered in his chest. He screamed, heard Peggy shouting, Dr. Erskine calling his name. It hurt. It hurt so much but he could do it. He had lived with pain all his life, what was a little bit more? He told them to continue, that he could take it. His heart beat faster and faster and faster. It would burst forth from his chest any moment, he knew it. Then it stopped. Everything stopped. The pain, his racing heart, his breathing. For a brief moment — no longer than a heartbeat and a hair's breathe — he was dead. The reawakening jolt of his heart made him gasp, the pod hissed opened and he felt the light of the lab pierce the darkness of his eye lids. Cheers and gasps reached his ears. He opened his eyes and winced, everything was too bright, everything was too loud. The touch of Howard Stark and Dr. Erskine too acute for his hypersensitive skin. The smells to sharp and he tasted something in his mouth.

Blood. Blood was in his mouth. He realized that as he came to. The wind howled like a banshee through the broken window. He pushed himself up, amazed that he was still alive and grabbed his shield. He should radio Peggy, give her the coordinates. The ice crack, a sound like thunder. The plane slid towards the water, heaving and groaning, icy cold washing over him. It stung his eyes, made him shiver. His leg was stuck, he tried to kick free, bash it away with his shield. He pulled his leg away, trying to swim but the cold sapped is strength. The light fading as the plane sank further into the ocean. His head popped free and he took in a final gulp of air, the water covering his head. He sank, limbs too heavy with the cold to work anymore. His back hit the chair, something hit his head and the cold mixed in with the blackness. The slow pulse of his heart was the last thing he heard.

He heard beeps. Beeps of machines. Warmth too, soft and cottony. The beeping was stead and grated on his ears, forcing him to the surface of consciousness. Harsh florescent lights burned his eyes and split his skull. He could feel his toes now, and every other ache and pain in his body. The pain made him dizzy. An uncharacteristic whimper escaped his lips. A figure was standing a little ways away, back towards him. Dark hair, wearing dark clothes, talking on a phone. The voice sounded familiar, its cadence refreshing. He picked out a few words: Don't know. Get it done. Alright.

He groaned, leaning back into the pillows. "H… Howard?" he croaked. "Howard, whaddya… Whaddya doin' 'ere?" he asked, tongue feeling thick and useless in his mouth.

"Steve." The man turned, and he realized it wasn't Howard. The man walked over to his bedside, gripping the railing. His face with its neatly groomed goatee was a splotchy jam colored, brown eyes livid with a maelstrom of worry and anger. In a tight voice he forced out, "Damn you."

He stared at the man, his brain fitting the pieces into place one by one. New York and the Chitauri, going into the lab for a new suit upgrade with magnets on his gauntlets to keep his shield in place on his arm, beers and barbeque and ribbing on his patriotic birthday. "Tony?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. His brain wasn't working.

Tony made a growling sound; he looked down, watching his friend's hands twist the railing of the hospital bed in a white knuckle grip. "Damn you."

"Tony, I—"

"No," he hissed, "no you don't get to talk here, Steve. Not after what you did." He frowned, confused, he still didn't remember how he ended up here. "How could you be so stupid. Careless. It's unlike you. I mean, everyone says you like to jump in head first but in all actuality, you're _usually_ the plan guy — Star-Spangled Banner Man with the Plan and all that bullshit. So, tell me, what were you _planning_ when you decided to go eighty on a wet, windy road at night?"

His eyes widen at that, surprised, horrified. "I did what?" It came back to him in sickening flashes. Ignoring Happy, taking his bike. The road, winding through Manhattan. The moist spring air in his face, cool and fresh with mist. The rev of the bike's engine. The sign that read: Motorcycles use extreme caution. The red speedometer needle nearing eighty. Somehow, he lost control, spinning-spinning-spinning. An unstoppable force meeting an unmovable object. Mud and grass, the wet snap of bones, the weightlessness of flying through the air. "Dear God…"

"Steve, I—" Tony shook his head, rubbing his running his index finger and thumb along his eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Did you even think?" Tony's glare pinned him to the bed (not that he could move if he wanted to). "What would the team have done if you had died? What would Tasha had done?"

 _Did_ I even think. "Tony—"

"Do you have _any_ idea how worried we've been?" he asked. "I know Bruce told you that Tasha needed a low stress environment."

That was a familiar warning. It jogged something in his fuzzy brain. Something about— "The baby." The pieces clicked into place. "Is Nat? Where is she?" Cold guilt coiled in the pit of his stomach. Flying down to DC, talking to Peggy. Getting back and just thinking about how if only he could end it all, everything would be so much _better_ without him. How everyone would be so much _happier_. He looked at his hands. The band of gold glinting in the light. "Is Nat okay?" The tears came unbidden. "Tony tell me she's okay."

"She's… I don't know." He leaned back and ran a hand through his short dark hair. "I don't know Steve. She… premature labour."

He swallowed. "Not another one." He bit his lip. He lost another child. And it was all his fault. He killed his child. He killed his child, because he was stupid and careless and— "I wish the accident had killed me."

"Steve, I… I…" Tony opened and closed his mouth, unsure what to do. He didn't care though. Tony wasn't there. He failed as a father, failed as a husband. Hell, he even failed in stopping Hydra the first time. Zola was right, his life amounted to a zero sum. He wished the accident had killed him.

A hand fell on his shoulder and he looked up. Bruce stared down at him. "Hey, you're awake."

"He's… I…" Tony coughed and paced and ran his hands through his hair. "Bruce talk to him," he said. "I'm going to get some coffee, call Pepper tell her that Steve's okay." Tony left the room. He didn't meet Bruce's eyes. He just stared at his own hands, eyes tracing the seamless perfection of his skin. Then he studied the blanket, dimly aware that Bruce was beside him in a rickety hospital chair. The clock tick-tocked in the sullen silence. He licked his too dry lips.

"Steve, Nat's gonna be okay. The baby's gonna be okay. She was here when she went into premature labour. They stopped it. Fixed it. Stitched her cervix close. The little guy's right where he's supposed to be for the next four months." He didn't say anything. Bruce shifted, uncomfortable with the silence. "Steve?"

"You mean, it wasn't—"

"No, no, it wasn't a miscarriage. Just premature labour induced by stress. I told you she needed to have low stress—"

"It should've killed me," he said, cutting his friend off. "I _wanted_ it to kill me." He clenched his hands, glad that Bruce wasn't saying anything. "I don't belong here Bruce. I have nightmares, I can't sleep, everyone I know is dead." He looked up at the ceiling. "Peggy is not really there anymore. And I'm afraid that my wife is just a replacement for something I can't have. That I love Nat because she was just there in my life when I had no one and nothing. I don't want it to be… but I fear its true." He sniffed. "I thought maybe if… If I was gone, everyone would be happier, better off without me. I mean, I was gone for seventy years and the world didn't fall apart."

"I get it," Bruce said, "I do. I put a gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger. The other guy spat it back out. So you know what I did after that?"

"What?"

"I decided to help people. I worked as a doctor, helping sick people because I was good at it." Bruce sighed. "And yeah, there were times when I thought about trying again, but I didn't. A family had taken me in, made me feel a part of their life and even though if I got angry I would become… well the other guy would come out, I felt the hopelessness ebb away a trickle at the time."

"I'm not like you," he said, "you… _belong_ here. Me? I'm seventy years outta date. All my friends, everyone I ever loved. Gone. All gone. I don't know what to do with myself. I don't know what makes me happy."

"Do I, Cap?" Bruce gave a dry laugh. "Do I belong here? If I get angry I could bring this entire place crashing to the ground and nobody could stop me without causing a bigger mess. Maybe neither of us belong here, but we are here. We have to make the best of it." Bruce hung his head. "At least you have someone that loves you."

"Bruce."

"It's better though. Keeps her safe. It's what I want. Her to be safe. Better that I'm not around."

"I'm sure she wouldn't say that," he said.

Bruce gave him a wry melancholic smile. "You know what I'm capable of, Steve."

"Does it get easier?" he asked. Bruce was silent for a long moment, looking out the window, watching the city in its bright spring riot of colors. The rain and the grey brought out the colors of the flowers and the new leaves. Rebirth, life, a will to thrive.

"In a way," he finally said. "It won't go away, but it gets easier. You learn to deal with it. Figure out how to live with the demons. It's not easy but, there are ways to help. Therapy, drugs."

"Drugs won't work."

"Therapy then." He stood up. "But we'll talk more about that later. I'm going to check up on Nat. I think Tony's trying to get you two in a room together." He nodded.

"Bruce," he said, his voice soft. "Tell her… Tell her I'm sorry."

His friend smiled, knowing and understanding. "I think she already knows."

* * *

The hospital staffed transferred him to another room, later that day. It was large and private, a warm beige color. Tony was in the corner yelling over the phone, trying to get the best possible care for two of his closest friends. Natasha was there, her belly a gentle swell beneath the blankets. She didn't cry though her grip was tight on his hand and her smile weak and watery. Peggy's question came back and he knew the answer in that moment. Yes, yes he did.

Natasha wasn't a replacement for what he lost. No, she was a second chance for him to gain what he lost. A family, happiness, a sliver of paradise. "James," he whispered, as he held her hand. "His name is gonna be James."

"Okay," she said, "okay."

She was released from the hospital the next day, the doctors determining that James was going to stay put and that (so far) there were no foreseeable complications and their baby was hale and hearty. He took longer in the hospital, bones healing tended to do that. He was released, weak and tender, several weeks later and Tony had the best physical therapist waiting for him to help him finish recovering. He also called Dr. Lawniczak, Natasha's therapist.

It was August when he finally saw her. She was a middle-aged woman, with brown hair and grey eyes, a few crows' feet at the corners, dressed in a snappy blouse and skirt. She greeted him with a smile as he entered her office and closed the door. He felt awkward as he sat down, staring at his loafers. She sat too, taking her note pad and placing it in her lap. "So, Captain—"

"Please, just Steve." He didn't want to be called "captain" during these sessions. He wanted to think of her as a friend in a way, a friend that could help. She smiled.

"Alright, Steve," she said, "tell me, what's been going on lately?" He licked his lips and glanced at the door. Outside in the waiting room was Natasha, heavily pregnant, eating a donut and reading a parenting magazine. "Do you want me to get your wife? She can sit in if that'll make you feel more comfortable."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No." And he began his story.

* * *

 **So, I'm sorry I made you guys cry. This is also kinda like a irunno, the end of an arch that doesn't have a beginning or middle.**

 **What started out as a discussion among friends about Steve not having PTSD in the MCU (or rather him having it but its ignored and only focused on Tony), me trying to write a fic exploring that, me coming up with this, then today I saw a character study video about Steve's** _ **depression**_ **(which is a symptom of PTSD), and the relating symptoms of depression and how they apply to Steve as a character though the MCU. Everything just clicked. So you get this.**

 **I'll probably got back and tweak the ending here cause I think Steve and Nat should talk but my brain is kinda frazzled at the moment and it's late, and I wanted to get this up because I haven't updated anything in ages.**

 **For those And We Run fans, chapter 27 is well… not started yet. The chapter is tricky because I want to do it right.**

 **Job hunting is still a bitch, I'm going to go to Seattle in two weeks for a little r'n'r.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **PS: Thanks to toonanimals for Tony's dialogue as he scolds Steve.**


	14. Thumb on the Outside

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _Brooklyn, New York, December 8_ _th_ _, 1941_

It was cold. A bitter, biting type of cold that seeped its way into the bone marrow and refused to be rooted out by anything. Class had ended early, President Roosevelt's announcement about what had happened the day before in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii was all Steve could think about. It was in all the newspapers, too. Big bold headlines in rich black ink: 1500 DEAD IN HAWAII, CONGRESS VOTES WAR. JAPS BUTCHER AMERICANS. WAR! OAHU BOMBED BY JAPANESE PLANES. CONGRESS DECLARES WAR ON JAPAN! 3,000 CASUALITIES IN JAP ATTACK. All the young men in his class whispered in excited conspiratorial tones about how they'll be enlisting in the service as soon as class was over. _How dare the Japs attack us like that, we gotta strike back, it's the patriotic thing to do… enlisting._ A few of his classmates asked him if he was going to enlist, he said he would.

Of course, when he told Bucky after class, Bucky was less than enthused. "You wanna enlist?" Bucky arched a brow, as they walked along the street to his apartment. "Steve, have you looked in the mirror recently?"

"What, I'm not handsome?" he asked, a quirky smile on his lips as he brushed aside his bangs. He needed a trim. "I think I'm easy on the eyes."

"If you say so pal." Bucky kicked a rock down the street. "Look, I know you're chompin' at the bit an' all, to get out there an' help, but you uh…"

"I'm what?"

"Well, you're—" Bucky gestured to all of him. Steve frowned, a brow arching. The wind whipped around them and he pulled his worn coat around him tighter. He blew on his hands to warm them, his gloves needed repairing, he should ask Bucky's mom if she could mend them.

"You just gestured to all of me," he griped.

Bucky took off his flat cap and ran his hands through his hair before jamming his hat back onto his head and blunt as a brick said, "Steve, you're skinny."

"So?"

"Look, I know you're thing against bullies and I understand that," Bucky said, stopping to turn towards him. He frowned, knowing where this conversation was going. "But you gotta face reality and—"

"Bucky—"

"And I think it's noble that you wanna do this, Steve, I really do but—"

"Bucky, Bucky—"

"You're not even a hundred pounds an' your asthma—"

"Bucky—"

"I just don't wanna see you get hurt, Steve." Bucky squeezed his shoulder. "There are plenty of other guys that'll punch the Japs in the face and—"

"It's not about that, Bucky. 1,500 people dead. 3,000 wounded, not to mention the ones we sent over to help the Brits fight Hitler. They are laying down their lives, I have no right to do anything less." The wind whipped around them, he pulled his coat closer and shivered. Damn it was cold. "I want to do this Bucky."

"Steve." He held his friend's gaze, determination burning in his eyes. "Jesus Christ," Bucky sighed. "Look, I promised your mam on her death bed, I'll make sure to keep you from getting hurt and—"

"Bucky, I'm twenty-three!" A petulant frown creased his lips. He wished people would stop treating him like a child. Yes, he was small for a man, yes he was sickly, yes he wasn't that most handsome guy at the dance, but he wasn't helpless. "I don't need you mollycoddling me, Buck."

Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and ran a hand through his hair. A car drove by, loud and rumbling as it did so. The wind howled through the brick buildings. Night was settling in, the street lamps started to turn on, mothers hollering for their children to come in from playing. A few passing gentlemen tipped their hats towards them in greeting and hurried on home, eager to get out of the cold. "Fine." Bucky said. "But before you go, I'm gonna teach you how to punch."

"I can punch just fine."

"Sure, you can, pal," Bucky said, slinging his arm over Steve's shoulders as they continued to walk towards their destination. "You'll be a regular Joe Louis by the time I'm finished." He grinned. "Two weeks, Steve. Then we'll enlist."

"You too?"

"Well, someone has to make sure you don't do anything stupid."

He flushed. "How could I, when all the stupid is with you," he said, elbowing Bucky's side. His friend laughed.

"You're a punk," he said, knuckling his skull.

"Get off, jerk," he said, pushing against Bucky. It felt good to laugh after so much death. "So where are you gonna teach me to throw a punch?"

"Goldie's Boxing Gym," Bucky said. "Best place around."

Every evening, after Bucky got off his shift from work and he finished with his art classes, they'd go to Goldie's Boxing Gym. Most of the nights it was instruction and Bucky showing him how to throw a proper punch, how to duck and dodge, weave about his opponent, sharp jabs and mean right hooks. The sandbag was his opponent, a cartoonish caricature of Tōjō or Hitler taped to it depending on the mood Bucky was in for the evening. The owner didn't say anything to them, just mopped the wooden floors and kept the rings clean. So long as they put their equipment back and cleaned up after themselves, he was fine with them coming.

It was their last night here, he thought he improved. That morning he flexed in the mirror before dressing. He gotten _some_ form of biceps, just a little maybe… he hoped. His mirror was old and dusty, so that may be why he didn't see anything. He was punching Bucky's fists, doing the moves as Bucky called them out when he stopped. "Alright," he said, looking at his shocked friend. "I want you to hit me."

"I'm not gonna hit you, Steve. I'll break something."

"Bucky, c'mon, what's the point of me learning to box if I can't take a hit."

"It's not a matter of you being able to take a hit or not. I know you can take a hit; it's the fact that I don't want you to get into a fight. This is to protect yourself, not to go beating people up."

"You know I don't do that, Buck." He gave his friend a leveled look. "Please. Just one. I need to know that I can block."

"Steve, c'mon, don't do this—"

"Bucky, hit me." He brought up his fists. "I can take it. I can do this all day." He smirked. Bucky let out a long-suffering sigh and punched him. Square in the face. Thankfully, Bucky held back, so his nose didn't break, just throbbed. He groaned, staggering back as he held his hands to his face. Bucky steadied him, helping him down to the bench. "You got me good, Buck." He looked at his hands, no blood. "You got me good."

"Jesus, Steve," Bucky said, he grabbed a damp rag and tilted his face up, dabbing at his nose. He sniffed. "Doesn't look to be broken, so that's good. Just bleeding a bit. This is why I didn't wanna hit you."

"S'kay," he said, submitting to Bucky's fretting. "Be an interesting story to tell." He grinned.

"You two better not be getting blood all over the place," the owner said as he swept. Steve pulled away, wiping at his nose, snuffling up snot and blood.

"We're not Mr. Goldstein," he said. The owner grunted. "Well? Am I ready?"

"One day, Steve, you'll tell your boy about this and he's not gonna believe ya." Bucky got to his feet and collected their gear before taking the sandbag from the hook, he grunted from the weight and waddled it over to where Mr. Goldstein kept them.

"If I live long enough to have a dame look at me twice," he grumbled, unwrapping his hands.

"Any dame would be lucky to have you, Steve, you're a real catch." He shoved the wrappings into his bag and peeled off his sweaty shirt and put a clean on one. He helped Bucky clean up; they fell into a comfortable silence and they left the gym, his thoughts buzzing about a future son.

* * *

 _Present Day_

James was six now; Bucky had showed up on their doorstep with Fury in-toe about three months ago. October was just starting, and James was in kindergarten. It was Saturday, Bucky was watching tv, he was in the spacious opening of the living room between the entertainment section and the kitchen. He sat on his knees, James against his chest. "Curl your fingers into your palm" — he watched his son curl his right fingers into his palm, he held James' thumb back — "that's it, keep your thumb out. Good. Now put your thumb over your fingers. There you go, James." He brought his son's arm up and moved it in the motion of a punch, explaining to him how to strike properly.

"He's not gonna get it punk if he doesn't hit something," Bucky said. The crowd roared. "What the hell, he got to the plate first! Open your eyes ump!"

"Language Bucky," he chided.

"Daddy, what's hell?" James asked. He glared at Bucky before looking at his son. He pulled James away, positioning him in front of him. He held up his left hand. James frowned, confused.

"A bad word. Only grown-ups can use it." He tapped his palm. "Punch right there in the middle of my hand."

"No."

"Aww, c'mon James, it's okay. It won't hurt me."

"No, Mommy said I'm only supposed to hurt bad guys," James said, turning to look at Bucky. He tried to remain patient, but James adored Bucky (especially Bucky's cybernetic arm) and Steve struggled with it. The nightmares that had plagued him since coming out of the ice had started to go away. Now everything came rushing back. All his anxieties and insecurities, his depression. He held it at bay, spent talking with Nat into wee hours of the mornings at times. He didn't want James or Bucky to worry.

"It's okay, James. You know that, but sometimes we have to make sure our skills stay sharp so we mock-fight with each other. Mommy and I do it all the time."

James' eyes grew wide, he bit his lip. "You do?"

"Yep, it keeps our skills ship-shape. We don't hurt each other though. So" — he tapped his palm — "Gimme ya best shot."

"You promise, Mommy won't be made at me?" James asked. He nodded, giving his son a reassuring smile.

"She won't, I prom—" he grunted when James punched him in the face. James' aim was off — way off but who was he to judge — and his son had no concept of holding back his incredible strength. He groaned as he hit his back, hand going to his face. James began to cry.

"Steve are you okay?" Bucky asked, coming over to him; he heard rushing footsteps coming down the stairs. He sat up, a bruise was forming on his cheek, near his nose and below his left eye. Natasha was there scooping up James.

"I hurt Daddy! Mommy, I hurt Daddy! I'm sorry, Mommy! I didn't mean to! He told me to! He told me you wouldn't be mad!" James sobbed, clinging to her. Natasha shushed their son, smoothing her hand through his strawberry blond hair.

"Steve, explain."

"I was teaching him to punch," he said, "convinced him it was okay to punch me. I was hoping he'd hit my hand, but" — he pointed to the blossoming bruise on his face — "we need to work on his aim." He stood up and went over to his wife and son. "Hey, buddy," he said, his voice soothing as his hand rested on James' little back. "It's okay. I'll be fine in a few hours, trust me. And you wanna know something else?"

James sniffled, rubbing his eyes. He smiled and wiped some more tears from his son's chubby cheeks, he still hadn't lost the baby fat yet. "Uncle Bucky punched me in the nose once," he said, his voice a stage whisper. He winked and James gasped, head whipping around to stare at Bucky.

"You punched Daddy in the face?" he said.

"Indoor voice, baby," Natasha chided. Bucky laughed as he returned to his seat on the couch.

"C'mere spunk, I'll tell you how that happen," Bucky said. James squirmed, Natasha wincing as his knee rammed into her solar perplex, she set James down and the boy ran over to snuggle against his uncle for story time. He shook his head, smiling at the sight.

"Lemme take a look," his wife said, and he tilted his head down so she could look at the bruise. "He did get you good." She ran her finger along his orbital bone. "Don't feel a break."

"It's just a bruise Nat. It'll be gone by bedtime." He pecked her lips. "Now, I have to go and make sure Buck tells the story properly." He grinned, winking at her and joined his son and best friend on the couch.

* * *

 **The second half turned out to be crap because my nighttime cold medicine is finally kicking in and I'm drowsy. The headlines are real headlines from newspapers the day after Pearl Harbor.**

 **According to the Fandompedia article for Steve Rogers, he and Bucky attended art class together (I can't see MCU!Bucky as an artist). So I tweaked it so Bucky is working at a canning factory (or something equally dull) and Steve is attending art school. The two weeks of training at Goldie's Boxing Gym is canon according to the fandompedia article.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**


	15. Poppy Fields

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _November 11, 1918_

The grave was small with a few tiny weeds clinging to life with the stubbornness of weeds. Beyond the silent sentinels of the brick buildings that ringed the little graveyard, Sarah could hear the cheering crowds, the marching bands that struck up in jubilation at the wonderful news: the Kaiser's armies had surrendered. Germany defeated. Victory! The guns no longer echoed across the battlefields. The young men that went to Europe could come home. But for her the guns had fallen silent six months earlier. "It's o'er Joe," she whispered as she knelt and placed a single red poppy on the grave. "Th' war, 'tis finally o'er."

Steve squealed in her arms, not liking the confines of a coat and three blankets. Clear snot glistened on his upper lip. She tsked and wiped it away. "Are ye sure ye wan' ta be takin' 'im to 'is grave?" Winnie had asked her that morning with big fat snowflakes drifting down from the metal grey sky.

"Aye, I do, Winnie. He needs ta know 'bout 'is da," she had told her friend. "Needs ta know 'is da died fer somethin' bigger than 'imself."

She tugged the wool cap she had put on his head earlier that day around Steve's ears. Weary of protesting his current state, Steve gurgled in her arms. He seemed more interested in the falling snow than what was going on, but she'll forgive him. He was a wee babe after all, Joe. "Stevie," she said, trying to get her son's attention. She bounced him. "Stevie, y'da…" she licked her lips, brushing his fine blond hair from his bright blue eyes. "Y'da was a hero, Stevie. He was a hero."

Steve cooed, then sneezed. He grumped for a moment as she fussed over him. That bright spring day in late May, when the army officer came to her door. She felt pity for him when his eyes landed on her swollen belly. She invited him in, gave him some weak coffee and watched him fret for a few minutes before he told her what she dreaded hearing. _I'm sorry ma'am, terribly sorry but your husband… he's dead._ She took the letter from him but didn't read it. _You tell your son or daughter that their father was a hero, alright? A real hero, fighting for freedom._ The officer put his hat back on and left. In a haze, she found her Bible, the only thing left of her life in Ireland and tried to find some comfort in the Word of God while tears rolled down her cheeks and her unborn child kicked in her belly. Steve made a loud noise, breaking her thoughts. She looked up as planes zoomed overhead, her son was fascinated with them. "Ye like 'em planes, Stevie?" He gurgled in response and she pressed a kiss to his cherry red cheek.

The wind ruffled her hair and she tugged Steve's little cap down some more to keep the worst of the chill from him. It felt like a bad winter was coming, especially with the outbreak of Spanish flu. Steve had a runny nose since mid-October, his sickly nature caused her to worry and pray that her son survived his first winter. God, Joe… if I lose Stevie… she closed her eyes, not wanting to think about what she'd do if she lost her son. She looked at the tombstone, simple grey stone with _Joseph Rogers_ etched into the top, below that was _Husband and Father_ followed by his dates of birth and death. "He risked e'erythin' fer ya, Stevie," she told her son. Steve paid attention to her now, the surrounding environment held less fascination for him. She reckoned it was the shift in her tone that drew her young son's attention. She sniffed, wiping away a tear. "Risked comin' 'ere, ta America 'ith me." It was there one chance at happiness together. A Catholic stable hand and the daughter of his Protestant lord; they could never have had a life in Ireland. America, the land of plenty and opportunity… now there they could have a life. A few people had looked at her with confused pity, wondering why she'd give up the comfort of being nobility to live as a poor destitute immigrant's wife in America. They simple didn't understand what it was like under the yoke of English tyranny, even for a minor noble like her father. She could have stayed, married the man her father chose for her, but she chose what she wanted and that was a future with Joseph. And that meant leaving everything she ever knew and everyone she ever loved behind. She hugged Steve, taking comfort in the sweet scent of his newness. "He loved this country, Stevie. Signed up fer th' Army as soon as he could. I was so proud" — yet also so scared — "He loved this country so much he died fer it." She listened in horror as Woodrow Wilson told the country that they were now at war with Germany on April 6, 1917. Joseph wouldn't sign up until October, when he lost his job. The child in her arms was the product of her last night with her husband. The letters after she told Joseph that she was pregnant were the happiest ones. Together they decided on two names: Steven Grant for a boy and Naomi Elizabeth for a girl. When the doctor placed her newborn son in her arms, she wept for herself and all that she gained and lost in that moment. The wind buffed them again, she held Steve closer to her chest. "He loved ye, Stevie. He loved ye so much," she whispered. The poppy's petals fluttered in the cold wind.

She knelt and held Steve closer to the headstone. Curious, her son reached out a small hand and touched his father's name. She smiled, nodding despite her tears. She saw so much of Joseph in Steve's small face. "Ye gonna grow up an' be big an' strong, just like 'im," she said, as she stood up and cuddled her son close. She kissed his brow, Steve was warm but not feverish. She'll have to head back soon, she didn't want his cold to get worse. "I just know it. Y'da will be so proud o' ye, Stevie. So proud." Steve squealed in delight. She hefted him up onto her shoulder as she walked off, humming as she did so. For his part, Steve stared at the grave of his father, and would unable to understand it's importance until years later.

* * *

 _Present Day – One hundred years later_

Steve Rogers turned off the car. The neighbourhood hadn't changed much since the last time he was here, though his more vivid memories of the place were about eighty decades out of date. It was cold, the sky a metallic grey and the wind came down from Canada with an icy bite to it. It was quieter than most places in New York, tucked away from the hum-drum of the city, forgotten by all but those that still lived here. It was one of the first places he went to after he woke up. He didn't know how it survived, but he had a feeling Peggy and Howard may have had a hand in making sure his parents' graves remained unmolested by the march of time and progress.

He zipped up his leather jacket, for this he wore civilian clothes. This wasn't like the public memorials he had gone to earlier, dressed sharply in his army uniform or the high profile one with all the Avengers attending, dressed in his Captain America uniform, camera flashes glinting off his shield. No, this was his way of thanking those that had paid the ultimate price for their country away from the public eye. This was Steve Rogers being an ordinary man. He looked at the passenger seat, James was slouching, eyes glued to the smartphone in his hand and the game he was playing. He patted his son's chest with his hand. "Hey, we're here."

"Where's here?" James sat up, a petulant look on his face. "Another dumb memorial?" Steve looked at the ceiling of the car, asking for patience (which James had been trying all day long). Most children growing up in peace time forgot the importance of this day, the significance and why they must always remember and always honor it. James was no exception. To him, Veteran's Day was just another day off from school, a chance to sleep in and hang out with friends. It never occurred to him to wonder why his dad got sad on this day or why his dad went to all these gloomy places. He had done it before he was born, so it was normal. Well, Steve decided that this year, the one hundredth anniversary of the ending of WWI, that James would gain some inkling as to why today was so important.

Only James was being stubborn as a mountain and fighting him every chance he got. "James, please," he said. "This is important."

"I don't see why I hafta come? Why couldn't I stay back at the Tower with Mom?" he whined. Steve rubbed his face; Lord give me patience. "Are ya gonna make another fancy speech here too? I don't see why I hafta come? I don't know any of these dead people."

"Because it's important."

"Is this something that you hafta do cause you're Captain America?" the annoyance in James' tone was grating on a raw nerve. "Cause I don't wanna be Captain America if I have to go to dumb memorials and stay dumb stuff about dumb dead people I don't even know." He pouted.

"James Aleksander," he said, his voice low and broking no argument. He held his son's gaze with an icy glare. "One more gripe from you, one more wise remark and I will ground you from now until Christmas. Now get out of the car." He rarely showed anger in front of his son, but the fact that the color faded a tad from James cheeks let him now his message got across and his son mutely got out of the car. He did too and waited for James to join him and they walked across the street; his hand settling on James' left shoulder. The gravel crunched beneath their boots, weeds clung between the cracks in the cement and on the cold dry ground.

The graveyard had fallen into disrepair and disuses, the church that once stood sentinel over the bone orchard was long gone, the locals cannibalizing it over the intervene decades. The brick buildings remained though, still guarding the dead, as if it was their solemn silent duty until the end of time. Most of graves had broken or missing headstones, the bodies they marked forgotten. It was empty save for them. He stopped at a pair of headstones that survived the test of time much better than their fellows. He pulled James closer to him.

"Sarah Rogers, Joseph Rogers…" James read aloud. "Are they related to you?"

The wind buffed them, and he ran his hand through his son's strawberry blond hair. God this is hard, maybe… maybe I should've left James with Nat. "Yeah, son," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "This 'ere is ya grandma an' grandda." He stood there staring at his father's headstone. Three generations of Rogers. "My mam an' da."

"Oh." James' arm snaked around his waist as he leaned against him. He pulled his son close. The connection was comforting. A silent unspoken bond between him and his boy, something he never had with Natasha.

"E'ery year I come an' pay my respects. Yer grandda… he… he died before I was born. An'… e'ery year me an' yer grandma would come an'… pay our respects." He rubbed at his eyes, the tears cold against his fingertips. "Mam… she uh… would tell me stories about 'im." He squatted down and traced the letters of his father's name. The stories didn't do his father justice. He often wondered about his father, the man his mother loved so much she went with him to another country. He knew he looked like him, same jaw and nose, same blue eyes and blond hair. Same determination and desire to help people. He wanted to be a soldier like his father, even serving in the same unit as his father. But despite all that, he didn't _know_ Joseph Rogers, and anyone that did know him was long dead. All he had were the stories his mother told him. It wasn't enough.

"Is he the reason why you became Captain America?" James asked. He gave a little smile, taking James' hand.

"Part of it, yeah," he said, not bothering to hide his tears from his son. "My father… Mam said he was a good man. Helped others, stood up for the helpless. She said I'm a lot like him."

"Would he have liked me?" There was a hint of worry in his son's voice. "And Mom?"

"He would have loved you James, and your mom too. Because I love both of you." He reached into his jacket and pulled out two poppies a bit worn from their ride in his jacket. "One hundred years ago, World War One ended, Mam said she brought me here to lay a poppy at my da's grave. I have done it every year since then." He gave a rueful smile. "Almost every year. Couldn't do it when I was fighting Nazis or frozen, but I hope someone did." He handed the flowers to James. "I want you to do it this year."

James looked nervous but took the flowers and twirled them around in his hands. He placed them on the graves. "H-Hey, Grandma… Grandpa… it's me… James. I hope Dad told you about me. I… I wish I had gotten to meet you." He smiled. "When I grow up, I want to be just like Dad. A soldier, Captain America." James licked his lips. "Thank you. I know it's weird, me thanking you, but I gotta, you gave me my dad. He's the greatest dad ever and I love him."

Steve bit his lip, hearing those words made his heart swell with love. He pulled James into a tight hug. "I love you too James," he whispered. His father gave his life for a better future, he did too in a way. He stood, pulling James against his side again. "Rest in peace Da… don't you worry about a thing… James and I… we have the watch."

 _In Remembrance to all those that gave their lives for their country, and to all those who served or have served. Happy Veteran's Day._

 _11-11-18_


	16. Keepsake I

**MCU (c) Marvel  
**

 **Keepsake Ornaments (c) Hallmark**

* * *

Malls overwhelmed him. The size, the brightness, the echoing voices and the plethora of stores. Back in his day (he hated that phrase, it made him sound old), such lavish displays of luxury were unheard of; now it was normal. The twenty-first century had an overabundance of food and money. Sure, he read about the crash in the 70s and the Recession in the late 2000s, but nothing compared to the sparse nature of the Great Depression. The grim bleakness of a populace looking for work and finding none, wanting food and finding their pantries empty. He read how the war saved the country from total economic failure. He supposed war created a demand for supplies, that demand created jobs, which created money. Still, such avarice on display bothered him. "You okay?" Natasha asked, leaning against the glass and metal railing on the second floor. They were at a mall in Brooklyn, the name she didn't remember, and he didn't bother to look up.

Giant plastic Christmas decorations hung between the walkways, with lights blinking merrily, the radio played Christmas music (half he didn't recognize). In the main hub of the mall was a large fake Christmas tree with a festive village around its base and a red winged back chair; there Santa Claus sat to accept Christmas wishes from children (and so parents can get their child's picture with Santa). Many of the smaller children were dressed in their Sunday best, their faces screwed up in fear and tears rolling down their chubby cheeks as they sat on Santa's lap screaming for their mothers, who cooed and waved while the assistant (elf) took a few pictures. He told Natasha to remind him to never subject his future children to such horror. She gave him a cheeky grin in response.

This was his first Christmas out of the ice. His first Christmas in an uncanny world: strange yet familiar, alien yet home. He didn't know what he'll do for Christmas day, so far he'd figured he'd go to Midnight Mass at the nearby Catholic Church. At least after seventy years that was still the same. He found himself going to church much more now (especially after the Chitauri), the familiarity of Catholic Mass brought him an odd sense of comfort and peace. The Bible hadn't changed. Communion was still the same. He wished he still had his mother's bible and rosary, but he lost those things long ago. "Steve, you okay?"

"Yeah," he said, leaning back, surprised that Natasha was so close to him. "Yeah, Romanoff, I'm fine."

"I told you, call me Natasha. No need to stand on ceremony," she said and began leading him through the crowds. Only she knew their destination and he was content to follow. "You going to Stark's Christmas bash on Christmas Eve?" she asked over her shoulder. He looked at the people, eyes widening whenever he saw a group of teenagers with hair the colors of the entire rainbow. Other teenagers had their faces decorated with piercings or they wore thick black eyeliner and matching black lipstick and dressed in black and chains. He wondered what happened to parenting in the seventy years he was frozen or at least human decency. "Steve? You still with me?"

"Yeah, yeah" — he looked around again, before finding Natasha — "just uh… I guess culture shock?"

She gave him her signature half smile. "Yeah, guess that's the best way to describe it. It is a different culture," she said. She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, tugging him along through the crowds like a mother holding onto her child. "You can ask questions. I _am_ here to help." She gave him a cheeky grin. "As your liaison to the twenty-first century."

"And how did you get that position again?" he asked. She laughed; he was learning to associate that sound with comfort and familiarity. He twisted his wrist free of her grip and took her hand. Her skin was warm with after lotion softness, yet the femininity of her hand masked its strength and deadly nature. He felt grounded when she didn't pull her hand free. "Remind me, I'm an old man, memory's on the fritz." He could poke fun at himself.

"That'll be the day," she said with a laugh. "Well, it was down to Stark and Clint," she said, "and I know them both and I couldn't just let you suffer with their terrible taste."

"Like your taste is any better?" he arched a brow, a playful smile on his lips. Banter came so easy with her, as if they had known each other their entire lives. She shot him a playful glare.

"I'm earning my Help the Elderly Girl Scout badge by doing this," she said.

"Y'know, I'm _technically_ twenty-seven" — he frowned — "twenty-eight, I had my birthday after the Battle of New York."

"Face it, Steve, you're a hundred years old. Nothing's gonna change that." She slid up to him, taking his arm in both of her hands. "It's okay _Grandpa_ , we can take it slow—"

"Hardy har-har." He rolled his eyes.

"—Oh look, there's a Hallmark store." She pointed out the store. His face went slack, and then he smiled. "We—"

"We're going in there," he said, pulling his arm free and grabbing her hand, leading her for a change, to the store.

"Seriously?" she asked, trotting to keep up with his brisker and longer strides. "I was joking about the grandpa thing, Steve."

"My mam used to take me to Hallmark every year in December to buy cards for the nurses she worked with," he said as he entered the store.

"Hi, welcome to Hallmark," the sales associate said, "what brings you in today?"

"Just…" he looked around, trying to fit the pieces together. The store had changed since he was a boy. It used to sell cards and gifting items and a few knickknacks, now there was a plethora of various items. "Christmas cards," he said, finding the familiar red envelopes.

"Yes, we have a lovely—"

He ignored the associate and went straight to the cards. He ran his fingertips over them, reliving the memories of his youth. "It was one of the few times I heard my mam speak Irish," he said, "she always muttered to herself in Irish." He pulled one free, admiring the design and the glitter, the simple message inside. "She'd've loved these cards. So much fancier than the ones I remember."

"Lots have changed," Natasha said, standing by his side. He noticed that she didn't look at the cards, instead looking at the not-Christmas items.

"Every year she'd buy me something expensive. Mostly art supplies, but sometimes other things" — he slipped the card back into its slot — "and I'd get a card with a piece of chocolate inside stuffed into my stocking." He smiled. "Had an old shoebox filled with Christmas cards. She always wrote something in them." He sniffed, wiping at his eyes. "Read them a lot when I missed her after she passed. Could still smell her perfume on them." He sighed, looking at the ceiling, collecting himself.

"I'm sorry Steve," she said. "Was she a… good mom?"

He grinned. "The best. Always knew what to do make everything better." He shuffled down the aisle and plucked another card. "Even after a long day she'd have a smile for me. Made everything special even when it wasn't special." He put the card back. "Sometimes, I still can't believe she's gone."

"She sounds like a wonderful woman," she said. "What was her name?"

"Sarah," he said, a bit wistful. He looked around the shop, noting the ornament wall on one side, the wall with various figurines, and the various displays dotted in between. "Her name was Sarah." He looked at her. "What about you? Any fond Christmas memories?"

"I never celebrated Christmas until I escaped the Red Room," she said, blithely drifting away from him. It was a punch to the gut, he gaped at her like a fool, blinking in stupefied disbelief.

"N-Never… Never _celebrated_ Christmas?" he asked. Good God, did he _squeak_ , he hoped he didn't just squeak. "How could you have never celebrated _Christmas_."

"Not everyone celebrates Christmas, Steve," she said, looking at the fancy Keepsake ornaments, the associate hovered near them. It was slow for the store, right now by the looks of it.

"Oh, so you celebrated Hanukkah, then?" He shoved his hands into his pockets. "That's alright in my book, really."

"No," she said, "I never celebrated _any_ holiday." She flipped an ornament a bit too firmly. The sales associate made a weird noise. "It just… we didn't do it."

"Oh. That's sad," he said. She shrugged. "Well, you're going to enjoy Christmas this year," he said. "I'll make Mam's baked apples, and I still remember her stuffing recipe." He grinned, warming up to the idea. "I'll bring them to Tony's Christmas party. Everyone loves free food."

"You do realize Stark will have food there, right?" she arched a brow. She pressed the button on the Captain America ornament.

He frowned. "I don't sound like that," he said. She grinned.

"'We did it together, as a team, we're the Avengers,'" she quoted, mocking him. He rolled his eyes.

"Nobody makes baked apples like my mam did," he insisted. "Trust me, Natasha, you'll love them." He laughed. "Bucky could… Bucky could…" he stopped, blinking. He shook, leaning forward to put his hands on his knees. He was there again, the icy wind howling in his ears, mixing with Bucky's screams. His friend vanishing into the landscape of white and dark grey; the way gravity tried to drag him down as he reached for Bucky. How he saved himself instead of his friend. He let out a few shuddering breathes and shook his head.

"Sir? Are you okay?" the nervous associate asked, taking a step closer to him.

He forced a smile on his face as he looked at the young man. "Yeah, fine." He nodded, acting as if nothing abnormal happened and ignored Natasha's disbelieving glance. "You'll love them," he told her, looking at the ornaments with faux interest. _Then honor his death and respect his choice, because he damn well thought you were worth it._ He closed his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek to keep the pain of losing Bucky at bay.

"I've lost friends too," Natasha whispered, slipping her hand into his. He bit his lip, nodding, squeezing her fingers. "The angel's nice."

"Yeah," he said, looking at the angel, "she is." Natasha let go of his hand and he watched her drift around the displays.

"I'm going to head out, if you want to get something go ahead, I'll be outside," she said.

"Okay." He looked at the associate. "That angel," he said, pointing to it. "Please."

* * *

The apples were still hot. He hissed and winced as he plucked them from the hot baking dish with a serving spoon and his hand. He didn't know how many to make so he made three dozen. His apartment smelled of apple pie, he had traditional carols playing in the background and he found himself humming to them. He wished he had some decorations, maybe he'll ask Natasha to help with that. Take him to one of those all year Christmas stores or something or — a knock broke through his thoughts and he almost dropped an apple on the floor. "Coming," he said, setting the apple down. He went to the door, wiping his hands. He opened the door, smiling a little when he saw it was Natasha. He tossed the hand towel over his shoulder.

"Didn't realize I caught you in a compromising position," she teased, eyes lingering a bit on his groin. He flushed, tucking his hands into his arm pits and rocking on his feet. She took a deep breath. "Smells like…" she stopped, licking her lips.

"Nothing's burning is it?" he asked, sniffing as well. "I should mix the stuffing." He headed to the kitchen. "Close the door will ya?" he asked over his shoulder. He heard the door shut as he lifted the lid to the stuffing, inhaling the reach aroma. His mouth began to water, the scents of chicken, onions and carrots bringing back fond memories of his childhood. Digging the wooden spoon in, he mixed the stuffing, remembering to scrap the bottom as his mother taught him. "Natasha, come here," he said as he tapped the wooden spoon on the pot's side. He took a small spoon and scooped out a bit, blowing on it. She came to him, cautious. "Try it," he said, "Mam's stuffing is the best."

He watched her take the spoon, nibbling at the stuffing before eating all of it. "This is good," she said. "Didn't know you could cook."

"I had to get by on my own." He went back to taking out the apples. "I made three dozen, wasn't sure how many everyone would eat and I could probably eat a dozen myself." He bent down and grabbed some large tupperwear. "I love this stuff" — he showed her the plastic containers — "best kitchen invention."

"Better than a mixer?" she arched her brow. He looked at the KitchenAid and chewed his lip. It was a handy invention, made life easier and baking quicker. He hadn't gotten a chance to use it, not being much of a baker.

"Yes." He set the tupperwear out with a duller clatter. "Help me back this up?" He started putting apples into the tupperwear. "Do you think we could go to some of the after-Christmas sales and get decorations? The apartment is kinda drab. Mam and I would string popcorn and make paper chains. If she wasn't too busy at the hospital and we could afford it, we'd go upstate to the woods and get some pine boughs for wreaths." He snapped the lid close.

"You really like Christmas," she said. He flushed, setting the apples in the next one. "Never took you for a religious person."

"I've… I wouldn't say more religious but… Mass is still done the same way it was seventy years ago." He shrugged. "It's familiar. I don't feel so… lost. And reading the Bible helps the nightmares."

"Nightmares?" she asked.

"What brings you by? Wasn't expecting you and I didn't think you'd be gun-ho to help me bring food to Tony's Christmas party."

"I got you a little something," she said, a mischievous grin on her face. He swallowed, focusing on his task to keep his emotions in check. He liked Natasha. He liked Natasha a lot. Their first meeting may have been cool, and she wasn't the coziest person, but in some ways, she reminded him of Peggy. A woman often underestimated, not afraid to put her life in danger to help people. Peggy was more open, easier to talk to, but the more he spent with Natasha, the more he discovered that she was easy to talk to, just in a different way. Yet, as much as he liked Natasha, she wasn't Peggy. And Peggy… Peggy was everything. He frowned, wishing he had died in the ice or when the Valkyrie crashed into the water. "I mean, it wasn't too much trouble. It's more of a gag gift… a gift meant as a joke. Not serious. I can take it back if you don't like it."

"Huh?" he looked at her, noting a flick of concern on her face before it vanished into a neutral mask.

"You got upset when I said I got you a gift."

"Oh, oh, no" — he waved his hand — "no, I was just… uh… I got a lotta thoughts rattlin' around in my head." He wiped his hands on his jeans. "So, you got me something, huh?" She nodded and presented the lumpy wrapped package. He arched a brow, taking it. "To: Steve. From: Natasha." He sat down at his little table and unwrapped the item, careful not to yank too hard at the tape.

"Maybe next year I'll just put the gift in a bag if you're gonna be an old man about unwrapping a gift."

"I'm ninety-four," he said, cheekily. He shook out the sweater. It was a deep navy with bands of white and red on the sleeves, hem and across the chest and neck. In the center was an image of his shield. "It's a sweater."

"Watch." She pressed a little button near the hem and the shield lit up in flashing colors — red, white and blue — while the Star-Spangled Banner Man with a Plan (instrumental version) blared. He winced and turned the sweater off. "Amazing isn't it?"

"I'm not wearing this, Natasha" — he offered the sweater back to her — "I appreciate the thought, but I'm sorry I'm not."

"It's a gift Steve, besides you have to wear it. Tony's hosting an ugly Christmas sweater party." She unzipped her jacket. Her sweater was a dark grey with a red hour glass symbol on the chest. She pressed the button on the hem and in a high tinny sound blared a national anthem he hadn't heard in decades.

"Is that… the Soviet national anthem?" he asked, watching the lights flash red and gold along her sweater. She nodded a soft giggle escaping from her. "I haven't heard that since I was in Russia."

She pressed the button again, shutting the sweater off. "What brought you to Russia?"

He shrugged, thinking of the winter of '43 and how the Soviets helped him and the SSR root out the Hydra base operating just inside the Russian border. A female Russian pilot had saved his life as he freed the prisoners. It had surprised him to learn she was a woman and later the Russian commander told him that the Red Army had several female fighters. "The war," he said. "Learned to respect Russian women though." He quirked a smile. "They can be scary."

She sat down, scooting the chair close and leaned well into his personal space. He could smell her perfume, a soft subtle floral scent that reminded him of roses after a storm. He leaned in closer, her hair smelled of roses and orchids. Her hands found their way to his thighs, a warm and gentle weight. "Just wear the damn sweater, Steve" — he could feel her breasts against his chest; he swallowed the lump in his throat — "I can always help you take it off later," she purred into his ear. She shifted a bit and more of the flowery scent filled his nose. He closed his eyes, the scent bringing forth memories of the floral scents Peggy wore. He told Bucky he was going to buy Peggy some nice expensive Paris perfume after the war. In fact, she wore his favorite the day she kissed him, jasmine and lilac with a hint of rose. He could feel her soft lips on his, the harsh orders of the car and plane exhaust mingling with the subtle floral notes of Peggy's perfume. The faith in him that he saw in her gaze gave him the courage he needed to go on, and the promise their kissed sealed was something he held onto. He pushed his chair back and was on his feet in a blink. Natasha grunted when her hands met hair.

"You should go," he said, staring at the horrid Christmas sweater in his hands, imaging all the Christmases he missed, the Christmases he should've spent with Peggy and the family they never got to have. The last time he heard her voice was when she told him where and when to meet her for their date. During the Christmas of '44, he promised Peggy he'd take her to a Christmas dance when the war was over; she hinted that she may just give him a kiss beneath some mistletoe once this was all over. He had blushed at that. It was the best Christmas he ever had, despite the fact they were in war torn Europe.

"Rogers, I was teasing about helping you take it off," she said, coming to stand in front of him. "Just wear the stupid thing for an hour or two and then go change. That's what I plan to do."

"I'm sorry, but I don't think I can make it." He looked at the apples and the stuffing he made. His teeth caught his lip; he sighed and decided that he could freeze the stuffing and just work on eating the apples for the next couple of weeks. Waste not, want not, right? Who was he fooling, thinking he could go to a Christmas party… his first Christmas out of the ice, and pretend everything was normal; with people he didn't know. "Tell Tony I—"

"No," she said, closing the gap between them. There was a look in her eye — concern, worry, he couldn't tell — that he hadn't seen before. "It's not good for you, staying home on Christmas Eve."

"I was planning on going to Midnight Mass," he said. "It's alright, I can get by on my own." Now I'm truly alone. At least last time I had Bucky… I knew people and how everything worked. Now… he shuddered. "Please, I don't want to be a Scrooge."

She shrugged. "Don't care. You're going."

"Natasha, I—"

"You can't celebrate your first Christmas back in the world alone, Steve." He hung his head at that. "Just come until you have to leave for Midnight Mass."

"Do I have to wear the sweater?"

"Until you leave for Midnight Mass."

* * *

He had been inside Avengers Tower a few times before. In fact, he lived there on an entire floor to himself (he had no idea what to do with all that space). The interior was always sleek, cutting edge and futuristic. Glass and chrome accents and the soft electrical hum of technology. All powered by JARVIS and all birthed by Tony's genius. It was still sleek, cutting edge and futuristic, though now boughs of holly (fake) with red velvet ribbons hung from the walls, red and green LED lights tucked into the seam between wall and ceiling, JARVIS greeting them with a Merry Christmas. It was a technocrat's version of Christmas. He tugged at his sweater. "Are you sure we won't be the only ones wearing these… things?" he asked, glancing at Natasha. He carried the pot of stuffing and she carried the tupperwear filled with the baked apples. He had left the ornament in his jacket pocket on the bed in his suite.

"Yeah." She glanced up. "Right JARVIS?"

"It is an _ugly_ Christmas sweater party, Captain Rogers," JARVIS said in a smooth British accent. Steve huffed as they reached the penthouse floor. The elevator chimed their arrival (the chimes sounded like sleigh bells). They stepped out.

"Hey, you guys made it!" Clint said, coming over to greet them. "Whatcha bring Cap?"

"My mam's stuffing and baked apples," he said, grinning. "And… what are you wearing?" he arched a brow at Clint's sweater. It was a dark olive green, with a childish image of a man with blond hair and pointed ears; the man held a bow and a Santa hat sat on his head. Clint grimaced.

"It's Legolas, from _The Lord of the Rings_ ," Clint said.

"We've watched it, it's the archer," Natasha said, out of the corner of her mouth. He nodded, remembering now. "I'm sorry Clint."

"It was the only thing Tony could think of apparently. Though… I guess he didn't do much thought for yours or Banner's."

"What's wrong with Banner's?" Steve asked, finding the scientist in the corner. His sweater was green. That's it. Just green with flashing green Christmas lights. "It's green."

"I get an eight-bit elf image and Banner gets a green sweater," Clint said as if that was supposed to explain everything. He arched a brow while Natasha chuckled and went over to the table, setting the tupperwear of apples down. He followed her.

"Natasha can you get the hot mitt from my pocket?" he asked and shifted so she could grab the thick square piece of cloth from his pants' pocket. She did and sat it down and he put the stuffing pot on top. "There, thanks."

"It was no problem," she said with a wink. He flushed. Tony walked up to them, his sweater was the less offensive garment so far. It mimicked Iron Man's breast plate though a hole was in the center to expose Tony's actual arch reactor.

"Capsicle! You made it!" he gave an uneasy smile at Natasha. "Natalie."

"Stark," she said. "You're looking spiffy."

"Nice sweater Tony," Steve said, shoving his hands into his pockets. He tried not to stare at Tony too much, tried to not find parts of Howard in his son. Tried… and failed. Howard had been his friend, someone he shared drinks with and laughed about the mysterious nature of women. Tony, as he learned quickly, was nothing like his father. Well, that wasn't true. Tony and Howard shared brilliance, natural charm and money. The similarities ended there.

"It plays music, all of them do," Tony said.

"I hate you Stark!" Clint yelled, when someone pressed the button on his sweater and _The Lord of the Rings_ theme blared into life. Steve's eyes grew wide when he realized that Tony had hooked the sweaters' music system up to the speaker system of the tower.

"Love you too Barton!" Tony gave the archer a cheeky grin and a merry wave. "Now let's press your button Capsicle."

"No." He took a step back, shaking his head and eyeing Tony's hand. The Soviet anthem sounded, loud and epic with the choir singing in Russian. He breathed a sigh of relief, ignoring Tony's pout. The elevator chimed again.

"Happy Yule everyone! I come bearing the Yule Boar!" Thor declared in his loud booming voice. He stepped out of the elevator, he wore a golden sweater with an image of his hammer emblazon on his chest. Upon one shoulder he carried an entire roasted pig, grease stains clear on his sweater. In the other was a wooden log. "And a Yule Log for more festivities tonight." Besides him stood a white goat with a wreathe around its neck. It gave a bleat, breaking the shocked silence.

"Thor," Tony began, "is that a goat?"

"Aye!" Thor said, grinning. "'Tis a billygoat! His name is Tanngnjóstr."

"Why did you bring a goat?" Clint asked, coming over to see what the commotion was about. The thunder god continued to grin.

"He's a Yule Goat. Every year my father would gift me a goat for Yule." He looked down fondly at the animal. "I'd raise them for a year and then we'd feast upon the goat."

"Okay, but why?"

Thor shrugged. "I have no idea," he said, "apparently Midgardians — you… Earth people — thought I really liked goats."

"Okay" — Clint's awkward grimace spoke for them all about being called _Earth people_ — "but why did you _bring_ the goat."

"Oh," Thor said, "that's simple. It's Yule! Can't have a proper Yule without a Yule Goat!"

"Please tell me you're not going to sacrifice Tann… your goat, Thor," Tony said, "I just brought in my white faux fur rugs for the winter and—"

"Not to worry Stark," Thor said, "I brought a Yule Boar for feasting! Went to Vanaheim and slew the beast myself!" He pushed his way through the crowd to the table and set the log down; then with one mighty sweep of his arm made a space for the large boar. Steve felt sorry for Tony as things clattered to the floor. "It was an epic battle," he said, "I shall regale you all about the hunt as we feast upon it!"

"I… I had ham," Tony said. Steve looked at the glazed ham on another table next to a beautiful Christmas goose and prime rib, his eyes grew wide at the display. Never had he seen so much food in one place before, every imaginable Christmas dish was present, prepared by the finest chefs in New York City. "I ordered catering, Thor! We had plenty of food!" Tony frowned when he noticed the tupperwear and pot. "Rogers, did you… bring this?" he pointed to odd items.

"Yeah, my mam's baked apples and stuffing." He swallowed. "I knew you had catering Tony, but I always had this during Christmas and I… uh… wanted to share."

"Mom's recipe?" Tony arched a brow. He nodded. "Can't say no to a mom's recipe." He grinned at the compliment, pleased that Tony liked his contribution to the array of food. "Let's get this party started, shall we? JARVIS."

"Yes sir?"

"Christmas music," he said and began to mingle with the guests. "You know the one."

"Of course, sir," the AI said, and a bombastic opening to the Ukrainian bell carol echoed on an ultramodern stereo; lights flashed red and green to the beat of the music. Tony, at the center of it all, grinned.

"I know this song," Steve said, staring at the lights. "Never heard it like this before." He stood there, awkward as people mingled. He only knew the Avengers; the rest were guests from Stark Industries that he didn't know. At the parties back home — funny how he thinks of before the ice as _home_ and after as not — he'd hang back, watching the gathering while he nursed a drink that Bucky had got for him. Bucky would come over and cajole him into mingling, steering him to where the mistletoe hung in hopes that the girl he had convinced would kiss him. Too often (like every time) she kissed Bucky, not him. At his hurt look, Bucky would come to his defense and demand to know why, to which the girl comment about his small stature, Susan McGillan had said, "he's more boy than man, Bucky." Betty Roberts had answered, "there's not enough man in him to appreciate a kiss!" Those hurt, but he shook them off. He lived his entire life knowing he was small, bullied because he was small. All the girls said that about him, but by far the worst was the Christmas of '39 when Anna Grace Martin sneered, "You want me to kiss _that_? He's not even a man, besides, he's _Irish_."

He left that party before Bucky could start anything. Being bullied for his small stature he could handle, but he hated being singled out because he was Irish. Now, seventy-three years late, he stood amongst strangers once more, feeling more awkward and out of place. The only plus side was that nobody hated the Irish anymore. He drifted to a corner, tucking his hands into his arm pits, watching everyone. "Rough crowd?" a voice asked. His eyes widened, surprised to see Fury there. The Shield director wore his signature long black leather trench coat and black eye patch over his eye. He also wore a candy cane pin on his lapel, the only nod on his entire person to the holiday.

"Director Fury, sir," he said, swallowing and looking around to see if anyone was watching. "Didn't know Tony invited you."

"He did, Hill and Sitwell are here as well." Fury watched the crowd, hands behind his back. "How are you adjusting?"

"Well," he said, "Natasha… uh, Romanoff— I mean, _Agent_ Romanoff, she's helping me catch up. Still behind, made a list of things to check out. And the internet," he said, "so helpful. Been reading it a lot trying to catch up. Natasha — _Agent_ Romanoff helps me with it from time to time."

If Fury noticed his familiar addressing of Natasha, he didn't comment. He thought Natasha was difficult to read, but reading Fury was like trying to squeeze water from a rock. "That's good," he said.

"Found a place in Brooklyn," he said, "not… changed a lot since I last been there." He glanced at the floor, which was more interesting that watching the crowd of people. He wanted to find Natasha, but he didn't want to appear like he was a fish out of water or a lost puppy. "Thinkin' about askin' Natasha — Agent Romanoff, if she'd uh… help me with Christmas decorations for next year."

"How would you like to join Shield?" Fury asked. He snapped his head to stare at the director. "Not sure if you're familiar with the history of Shield, but it was what the SSR became. Peggy Carter helped found it, along with Stark's father and Colonel Philips."

"Oh," he said. He swallowed, trying to sort his memories of Peggy and his crushed dreams of a future they never got the chance to have around in his head. He swallowed, squishing his hands further into his arm pits. "I uh… well…"

"Think about it Cap," Fury said, "we'd love to have you on the team." Fury gave him a single nod. "Merry Christmas." And walked into the crowd, vanishing among the sea of people. He stared at the spot the Shield director was moments ago, trying to gather his thoughts. Unsure what to do or say, so he just stood there until Natasha came over, her cheeks flushed from drink, eyes bright with good cheer.

"Steve, what are you doing here? Hiding in the corner like a Scrooge," she said, looping her arm through his. "Mingle, before Stark finds you and labels you a Grinch."

"A what?"

"Put it on the list," she said and took a sip of the drink she held. "Vodka?" she smirked. He swallowed again, cheeks heating and blood rushing south. Whenever she smirked like that, he got a little thrill of excitement, it was how Peggy made him feel, when she had showed up at the bar in that stunning red dress and told him that after the war she may even go dancing. He squeezed his eyes shut and gave himself a little shake. He didn't need to be thinking about Natasha like that. He had Peggy… well, Peggy was probably dead, and probably had married during the seventy years he was frozen — regardless, he shouldn't be thinking about Natasha like that. He didn't know much about her private life, but he was pretty sure that she and Clint had a thing. "It's the good stuff," she said, "Zyr, best Russian vodka money can buy. Stark always gets the good stuff."

"No, I uh… can't get drunk," he said. "So, I uh—"

"You can't get drunk?" she arched a brow. He flushed. He should have known better to admit that to her. She was Russian. Next to the Germans and Irish, the Russians were known to be big drinkers. He read on the internet that after the end of WWII, Moscow ran out of vodka because the Russians partied so hard. "That's the best, Steve!"

"I really don't see how it is," he muttered. He never was a big drinker, so he'd nurse a drink throughout the night. It was only after Bucky's death that he realized he couldn't get drunk. "It's quiet miserable when you want."

"Think about it Rogers," she said, leaning into him — he figured she was a bit tipsy, since her rigid control over her emotions was loosen. "You can actually _enjoy_ alcohol. You can drink it like other people drink juice. Not that I'd recommend it, but… you can be an absolute liquor snob now."

He titled his head, never thinking about actually drinking for taste and pleasure before or realizing that the serum allowed him to be able to do that. Never hurts to start. "Let me taste then," he said, holding his hand out for her glass. She handed it to him. "Best Russian vodka?"

"Best money could buy," she said, smirking again. He flushed and squeezed his thighs together and made himself think of something sexually unappealing. He took the glass and took a sip. He made a face at the burn of alcohol.

"It's… not for me," he said, handing the drink back to her. She gave a little shrug, taking another sip. "Sorry, I just… even before I was well…" he swallowed. "I never was a big drinker."

"Steven!" Thor boomed as he came over to him.

"Please, Thor, just Steve." He gave the Asgardian a pleasant smile. Thor clapped him on the shoulder with a beefy hand, gesturing with his mug to his sweater.

"You have a Yule sweater too!" He plucked at his own. "I'm pleased Stark felt inclined to give us festive garments to wear to this Yule celebration."

"Christmas sweater Thor," Natasha said. "And it's Christmas party." She took another sip of her drink.

"That's what I said." He grabbed the button on Steve's sweater and pushed. The Christmas music stopped, replaced by the song the sweater played. Everyone turned and stared at him. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. "Marvelous!" Thor said in that booming voice of his. He pressed his own sweater's button. A song he never heard before began to play.

"Is this _Immigrant_ by Led Zeppelin?" Clint asked, looking at Tony. Tony pushed his lips together, making a popping sound as he pulled them back in a feral happy grin.

" _Bingo_ , Legolas!" he said.

"Please don't call me that," Clint groused, tipping his beer back to take another swallow. He pushed at the goat. "Thor come get you goat."

"Tanngnjóstr! Leave the Master of Arrows alone!" he strolled over to Clint and scooped the goat up, tucking it beneath his arm. The goat bleated. "I'm sorry Clinton, he's just being friendly."

"Don't _ever_ call me that," Clint hissed, "it's _Clint_."

Thor gave him a puzzled frown. "I'm sorry, I thought your name was—"

"My name is _Clint_ Barton. You can call me that, or Barton or Hawkeye or even 'hey you, arrow guy'. Just don't call me that."

Steve frowned, leaning close to Natasha. "What does Clint have against Clinton?" he asked. She brought her drink to her lips, taking a long swallow.

"I asked once," she said.

"And?"

She gave him a look. "Never asked again." She drifted over to the table of food, eating some of the finger food items. He stood by her side, feeling awkward again.

"Steven," Thor said, coming over to them, the goat still tucked beneath his arm. "Let me get you something to drink! You must be merry during Yule!"

"It's Christmas, Thor. Nobody calls it Yule anymore," she said. The god ignored her as he set his goat down and got another tankard. Steve wondered when the large wooden barrel made its way into the room, but he figured it was better not to ask questions as Thor handed him a foaming tankard of Asgardian spirits.

"Asgardian honey mead, brewed specially for Yule!" Thor thrust the tankard into his hands. "Drink up!"

"I uh" — he glanced at Natasha and then at the god — "okay," he said and drank. The mead was sweat with warming spices of cinnamon, cloves, ginger and nutmeg (he wondered how the Asgardians had such spices), there was also a hint of orange. It tasted better than the vodka. "This isn't bad." He grinned. "You know I can't get drunk right?"

"Steven, my friend," Thor said as he slung his beefy arm around him. "Asgardian mead is quite different from Midgardian brews." He tipped the tankard back. "Drink up, it's Yule!"

He choked, swallowing the sweet and spice mead quickly so he didn't gag. Natasha giggling behind him wasn't helping. He lowered the tankard when he finished. "This is uh…"

"Another!" Thor shouted, snatching the tankard away and refilling it. "And you must try the Yule Boar!" Thor handed the full tankard back to him before pulling off a hunk of the boar, its skin roasted to a crisp perfection crackled as Thor plopped it on a plate and handed it to him. Steve looked at the large hunk of meat. He took it.

"Thank you," he said and filled his plate with a little bit of everything (his own offerings included) and sat down at a couch to eat. He was about half way through his meal when the Asgardian mead hit him. His head swam, he felt warm and flushed, his stomach rolled, and he felt the strong urge to pee. He shook his head when Natasha sat down.

"You okay, Rogers?" she asked.

"I think the mead hit me," he said, looking at the half-drunk tankard. She arched a brow. He took another long swallow. "Haven't been drunk since '36," he muttered, his voice echoing in the hallow clay confines of the tankard. "So—" he shrugged.

"What crazy party did you go to in 1936?" she asked, a giggle in her voice. He lowered his tankard, his face grim as he caught her mirthful gaze.

"My mother died in 1936," he said. The smile fell from her face and she straightened, looking ashamed.

"Steve… I'm sorry," she said, bowing her head, "I didn't know."

The party seemed far away, the world narrowing down to the two of them. It felt nice that she offered sympathy. He hadn't thought about his mother's death in a long time. The ache in his heart hurt anew, the reminder that he was a man out of time fresh. His mother had been dead seventy-three years, yet to him still felt like only nine years. Though, he supposed, neither amount of time made it easier. Time doesn't heal all wounds. The thought was bitter, like the burn of his sudden tears. He pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes. He felt melancholic, woozy and too warm; he was acutely aware of Natasha rubbing his bicep in an effort to comfort him. He stood up. "I'm warm, wanna head out and get some fresh air?" he asked. Head spinning, he grabbed her shoulder, squeezing to keep himself upright. He forgot what it was like to be drunk; he didn't notice that she winced.

"Yeah," she said and lead him out to balcony. Thor stopped him on the way to the door to fill his tankard (yet again) with the heady Asgardian mead.

"Thor, I really… I don't think I can drink anymore," he said, wincing as some of it flowed over the rim and onto his hand. His head spinning, he felt like he was sweating even though he knew he wasn't and his bladder felt over filled. The demigod flashed him a board grin and clapped him on the back.

"It's Yule, Steven! Drink up! Be merry!" he said and went off to mingle with the rest of the guests. Steve sighed, taking a long swallow from his tankard, inwardly cursing his mother for ingraining such refine manners into hm. He slipped outside, shuddering at the biting December cold. Fat snowflakes drifted down, zigzagging in lazy spirals towards the earth. New York was bright, golden oranges and bright yellows from the streetlights and headlights of cars, clear white from the offices still open as they held their annual Christmas parties. Christmas lights aglow on the wreaths hung upon the lampposts and buildings. Tony had programmed the lights of the A as well, flashing seasonal colors in time to the music and a Christmas decoration was set up on the overhead level.

It was all background information to him. Natasha stood there, snow caught in her red hair and black sweater. She watched the city, a serene look on her face, pensive but not unhappy; content. "Back in Russia, because it was communist, we didn't celebrate Christmas," she said, "at least I don't remember celebrating it. Then in the Red Room there were no such things as birthdays and holiday." She took a sip of her vodka. He stopped at her side, sipping at the mead to give him something to do, feeling more and more woozy. "It wasn't until Clint rescued me that… I truly experienced Christmas." She smiled at him and he grabbed the cold railing, the shock of it kept his mind from wandering into the gutter. He drank some more. "It was 2006, Clint had found me that spring, so I'd been out a few months. He invited me over for Christmas."

"Oh? That's nice of him."

"Clint's a great guy. Took me under his wing, I'm grateful for him. He… I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for him." She took another sip. "And Laura… she's special too. Always flexible, always willing to adjust and understand. Never asking too many questions, accepting the answers Clint gives. She has to be, being married to Clint and knowing what he does for a living."

"Wait," he said, "Clint's _married_?" It was a struggle to process the information, his mead-washed brain didn't want to understand it, but he forced it to and his eyes widen. "He's married… but I thought you and him" — he cleared his throat — "err… y'know, fondued."

"Fondued?" she arched a brow, confused. "Clint hates fondue."

"No, no… I…" he chugged some more mead to hide his embarrassment. "Make whoopie… do the dance with no pants, uh… cuddle naked." Natasha bowed her head, shoulders hunching up around her shoulders as she snickered at him. He flushed, hating himself. "I thought you and Clint were together."

"No," she said, "no Clint and I aren't together. He's like brother to me. Laura is Clint's wife." She smiled. "And what's this thing about fondue?"

"I uh… I'll explain later when I'm less… drunk," he said, looking at the tankard and drowning the rest of the contents. "If I have any more I may throw up."

"Okay, Rogers," she said, shaking her head, "I guess you can get drunk, so long as its Asgardian mead."

"Yeah." He looked out at the snowy city. "Always was a lightweight, even when I was—"

"A shrimp?"

He scowled, but an amused snort escaped him. "Yeah." He peered into the empty tankard. "Mam always made Christmas special. We'd string popcorn and listen to Bing Crosby on the radio. If she wanted to do things extra special, she'll make caramel apples and we'd make papier-mâché ornaments and paper garlands for the tree. I'd go down to the corner store and buy a box of candy canes for a buck and hang them up on the tree. We didn't have a tree topper so we'd put Da's crucifix on instead. Sing Christmas carols before going to bed." He wiped at his eyes. "Christmas was always special. Even though we didn't have much, it felt like we had a bunch." He hung his head. "Doesn't feel the same now. Doesn't _feel_ like Christmas. Everyone's concerned about shopping and parties and gifts. It seems like in the past seventy years everyone forgot about what Christmas means."

"People aren't religious like they used to be."

"I'm not talking about that, Natasha," he said, "Christmas is… we lived near the Jewish neighbourhood, because it was cheap, and they didn't mind us Irish… they even wished us Merry Christmas, invited us over for a Christmas dinner once or twice. They didn't celebrate it, but they understood it. They understood what it meant." He shook his head, hating how his emotions bubbled up so easily. "I have no one, Natasha. Everyone I ever knew, ever cared about its dead and gone and I just… I'm alone. I'm so alone." The tears dried on his cheeks, sharp and cold with his misery. If she was uncomfortable with his sudden confession she didn't show it. She took the tankard from his numb fingers and set both the tankard and her glass aside.

"I understand," she whispered, wrapping her arms around him. He buried his face into her neck. Her hand traveled up and down his back. He pulled away after a moment or two, turning his gaze to the city. A car blared, the sound muted in the wintery night. Tiny black human shaped figured walked along the snow-covered sidewalks. New York never slept, even back in his day, there was something always going on, but now it seemed like that was truer. There was the constant buzz of technology, if people slept then the machines stayed up, working long after their human masters went to bed. Natasha's hand closed over his. "After the Red Room, I felt alone too. Felt out of place. All I ever knew was a life in the Red Room, my life before it… well, they had really good mental conditioning. Most of it feels like a dream. Clint… he stayed by me after I got out. He made me feel less alone."

"You're lucky to have him; a friend like him," he said. Bucky was like that… but Bucky's dead, because of me. "I have nobody." He pulled away before she could say anything, his head spun from the suddenness of it, and he headed to the door.

"Steve, wait," Natasha said, and he heard her follow him. The door hissed then sighed open and they both stepped into the moist warmth of the interior. Everyone stopped, Tony had JARVIS turn the music down low. He grunted when she ran into his back. Though drunk, he managed to stay up right.

"Looks like someone's beneath the mistletoe!" Tony shouted. Steve flushed, and stepped aside to let Natasha enter further; the doors sighed closed behind them. "C'mon Capsicle, kiss her!"

"Yeah," Rhodey agreed, "caught beneath mistletoe, gotta kiss."

His flush deepened. "I'm… uh… no, I'm not—"

"Sure you're not that old to remember that you gotta kiss beneath the mistletoe," Clint said. "Bet it was around during your time."

He swallowed, tugging at the collar of his sweater. "It was, Barton, it was but I—"

"Among Victorian English tradition, any man beneath the mistletoe can kiss the woman caught with him. If the woman refused a kiss, she'll have bad luck. Berries were to be plucked after each kiss and once the berries were gone the plant had no power to command kisses anymore" — Bruce made a face — "Mistletoe is poisonous so… don't eat the berries. And among German tradition, the couple that shares a kiss beneath mistletoe is destined to have enduring love or are bound to marry each other."

Steve glanced at Natasha from the corner of his eye, unsure whether to bolt or go through with it. He never kissed anyone beneath mistletoe. "Thanks, Nerd!" Tony shouted, Bruce flushed. "C'mon, Rogers! Give Natalie a smooch!"

"Shut up, Stark, you're drunk," Natasha said.

"Aren't we all?"

"A tradition, such as this, must be upheld. Though in Asgard, the mistletoe is banned." Thor frowned. "Loki tricked our blind cousin Hodur into throwing mistletoe arrow as his cousin Bladr, it killed him."

The room was silent again. The goat bleated, and Clint coughed into his fist. "That's why you don't give blind people arrows," he muttered. Tony burst into uproarious laughter at the comment. "You can kiss her Cap, just remember if you break her heart, I know where you live."

"I bet he's shaking in his boots," Tony said. "Go on kiss her! Before I get everyone to chant."

"Fine, fine," he said, losing his patience (and his bladder was not far behind, dear God why did he drink that third tankard). He kissed Natasha's cheek. She arched a brow and the room booed. "I kissed her."

"Do a proper kiss, Captain," Hill called from the crowed. He hunched his shoulders up around his head, trying to become smaller than his six-foot-two frame.

Tony looped his arm around Pepper's waist when she drew near. "I'll show you, Rogers, since Dad said you were hopeless with the ladies." He kissed Pepper, pulling her close and cradling her head with his hand. "That's how you kiss… what did Dad always say you old folks called the ladies? Right, dames. That's how you kiss a dame." He winked at him.

If Steve ever wanted the floor to open up and swallow him it was now. He glanced at Natasha. "What's the matter Rogers? Never kissed a girl beneath mistletoe before?" she asked, that smirk appearing on her face again. His face paled and blood rush south.

"I can show you how to do it, Steve," Bruce said, inching closer to them.

"When have you ever kissed a girl, Banner?" Clint asked.

"I was popular-ish with the ladies before… well… you know," Bruce said, sounding flustered. Clint and Tony both gave a laughing snort. The fact that Bruce offered to kiss Natasha irked him. It reminded him of how he felt when Howard asked Peggy if she wanted a late-night fondue. An evil itch that wriggled up his spine.

"I can damn well kiss my dame," he growled, shooting a challenging glare at Bruce. He grabbed Natasha's face, pleased about her surprised squeak, swallowed and — it's just like how Clark Gable kissed Scarlette O'Hara in _Gone With The Wind_ , he told himself — kissed her. Her lips were soft, tasting of the vodka she drank, cold from the outside yet warm with her internal heat. Her tongue brushed against his lips and he opened his mouth, tasting more of the vodka on her tongue. He gave a soft groan when she ground against him. They broke apart when the demand for air was too much, still they didn't lose contact. He took in several breaths, processing everything. "Uh…"

Natasha smirked, green eyes twinkling with… _something_ he couldn't quiet place. "I can do more than just kiss you beneath the mistletoe," she whispered into his ear, "I can make you go ho ho ho, too." She ground her hips against him. His face went red, his stomach rolled, and he felt himself harden further.

"I gotta go," he said, pulling away from her and walking towards the exit, trying to not cup his hands around his crotch as he wove through the crowds. He hoped nobody saw his erection, he hoped it wasn't as prominent as it felt. Stupid serum, he thought to himself with an unhappy grumble as he went into the elevator and told JARVIS to take him to his suite.

* * *

Vomiting his dinner into the toilet won out over jacking off to his holiday themed fantasy of Natasha having her way with him. He flopped onto the bed, dimly aware of the ornament and tried to sleep. "Captain Rogers, it's thirty minutes to midnight, the nearest Catholic Church's Midnight Mass begins in fifteen minutes. I have informed Mr. Hogan that you will be requiring a drive to the event."

Right, Midnight Mass… he forgotten about that, forgotten he told JARVIS to remind him. "Thank you, JARVIS."

"Of course sir, also, Miss Romanoff is at your door, she seems… agitated, shall I let her in?"

No. "Sure." He sat up, rubbing his face, pulled the sweater off as Natasha came in. His puckering in the cold of his room.

"God bless America," she said, desire in her voice. He flushed. "So, you changed your mind?"

"No, I uh…" he stood up, making a face and opened his closet for a shirt. He shrugged into it, fingers deftly buttoning it closed. He tucked the ends into his pants. "Sorry. I uh… I'm sorry."

"I should be apologizing," she said, "I was out of line." She smiled. "Though for your first kiss since 1945—"

"I'm sorry, I only had… Peggy… she… she kissed me before... I… she kissed me goodbye," he said. "And again, I'm sorry, but… it's not… I still—" he stopped, shaking his head, figuring it was better not to say anything further. Thinking about Peggy hurt, and he couldn't betray her, even though she's dead and would have wanted me to live my life and find happiness even if it wasn't with her.

"I understand," she said, "I've lost someone too."

He nodded, giving her a small smile as he combed his hair to the side. He glanced at the mirror, he looked halfway decent. "Well, uh… Merry Christmas," he said, scooping up her gift and his jacket. "Happy's waiting for me. Gonna take me to Midnight Mass."

"I'll tag along, never been to one before," she said.

"You really don't have to, Natasha. I'll be fine on my own," he said, as he shrugged into his coat and stuck the box into his pocket.

"You shouldn't be alone on Christmas Steve, even if you're going to church," she said and looped her arm through his. "You're surprisingly sober."

"I threw up."

"Ah. I didn't, but I've always been good at holding my liquor," she said as they entered the elevator together. They rode the elevator in silence, the floor numbers pinging as they came and went. He glanced at her, a little smile on his face.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For coming," he said, she smiled.

"Someone has to make sure you get back in one piece, Rogers," she teased as they reached the garage and stepped into the cold exhaust scented space. Happy was waiting for them with a car. He opened the door for her, which she smiled and thanked him, before he got in himself on the other side and Happy drove them to Mass.

* * *

The church he went to as a boy felt more medieval than the church he and Natasha sat in. Still, the weight of tradition stretching back thousands of years hung heavy in the space. A sense of devote holiness, a divinity beyond the ken of mortal man. They sat in the back, the pews less crowded, both observing the Mass rather than following along. Though they did partake in the communal aspects of it. Sang Christmas songs and said amen when required. The priest was a grandfatherly fellow but with a soft voice that carried through the solemn silence of the church. He spoke of Jesus's birth, how the Guiding Star brought the Wise Men to Bethlehem, how the angels informed the shepherds of Christ's birth. How the world rejoiced over the news of their Savior, the Son of God, born of the Virgin Mary. The choir boys behind the priest began to sing a hymn, dressed in white and gold gowns, their cherubic faces pink-cheeked and merry. "I was a choir boy," he said, his voice soft as to not disturb Mass.

"Oh?" she arched a brow. "Don't take you for a singer."

He flushed. "Well, I was. I was good at it. I also helped drew the backgrounds for the Nativity scene at our church when I was a boy. And I played the little drummer boy in the Christmas Pageant."

"You were very involved."

"Well, it was either partake in church functions or get beat up in snowy alleyways, Mam preferred the church functions, so…" he gave a little shrug. "Was a part of the church choir, did Sunday school. The usual stuff. Made Mam happy."

"Explains the good manners and the only one god," she said, a teasing smile on her face. He shook his head, leaning back into the rigid wooden backrest of the pew. He took her hand, putting it on his thigh, squeezing her fingers. Neither said anything about it, both accepting the contact, the quite closeness between them, a budding friendship. "Do you believe it?"

"Believe what? That Jesus was the Son of God?"

"No, what Bruce said, how we'll get married and have enduring love because we kissed beneath the mistletoe. Do you believe it?" she asked, a pensive open expression on her face, as if she was silently asking him to give he a reason to trust in something she wouldn't trust in; looking for hope from him.

"I uh…" he tilted his head, unsure how to answer. He gave a little shrug. "Not really. It's just a superstition. Why?" he asked, glancing at her. If she was disappointed with his answer, she didn't show it.

"Love is for children," she said, "and marriage only happens in fairy tales."

"Take that as a no." He watched her nod out of the corner of his eye. He pulled out the box, the wrapping paper started to peel away from one corner, he frowned. "Merry Christmas, Natasha," he said, handing it to her. "Sorry about the condition."

"For me?" she asked. He nodded and began to worry when he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. "I… thank you," she said, a heartfelt smile spreading on her face. She unwrapped the present with the same carefulness he had done with the sweater.

"I'll get you a bag next time since you're going to be an old lady about it." He bumped her arm with his elbow, smiling. She shot him a mock glare, and then her face went slack at the sight of the angel. "Do you like it?"

"Steve… I…" she opened the box, pulling apart the molded plastic case and held up the pretty angel. The light from the candles shimmered off the mirror finish of the porcelain and metal accents. A comforting expression was on the angel's face as she held the Guiding Star. He reached over and wiped away a tear. "I've never gotten something this beautiful before."

"Well, it's nothing. I saw it thought of you and…" he shrugged.

"I don't know what to say," she said, holding the angel for a few moments longer. With reverence, she put the ornament back into the box, placing the plastic lid over her. "I'll always treasure this, Steve. Thank you."

He leaned in closer to her. "You're welcome, Natasha," he said, his voice soft and his eyes started to flutter close. He could smell the vodka that stubbornly clung to her breath, the floral notes of her perfume and the new car smell that clung on her jacket. He could almost feel her lips, taste them too, his eidetic memory filling in the missing pieces.

"We shall end this Mass by singing, _Silent Night_ ," the priest said, his voice breaking through their private moment. They pulled apart, sitting up straighter. The choir master moved his arms to get the tempo of the song going and the choir began to sing. It began soft and angelic, the youthful voices of boys too young to be on the cusp of manhood filled the space, echoing through the church and up to Heaven, so the Father, Son and Holy Ghost could hear. He threaded his fingers with Natasha's, smiling at her and his heart swelled when she returned it.

Together they began to sing, " _Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright_ _._ _Round yon virgin mother and child._ _Holy infant, so tender and mild,_ _sleep in heavenly peace!_ _Sleep in heavenly peace._ "

* * *

 **This is the first of my Christmas special fic. It ties in with The Little Things in Life. It's loosely inspired by Hallmark Keepsake ornaments and it got long. There are six more Christmases that need to be discovered.**

 **The Clark Gable thing is a nod to Captain America: White.**

 **I've seen the A4 trailer, no spoilers in the comments, please and thank you.**

 **Hodur and Bladr are from Norse mythology, Bladr was supposed to be in** _ **Thor**_ **, but got cut because it was just too much. So, I made Hodur and Bladr Thor's cousins.**

 **The closest thing I could get to a Viking Christmas was Yule. Yule Goats, Yule Logs and Yule Boars all come from Viking Yuletide tradition. Since Thor is very Viking… well… and the goat's name is from Norse mythology. Thor had two goats pull his chariot. He'd eat them and they'd come back the next day.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**


	17. Keepsake II

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

Growing up, Natasha never celebrated Christmas; banned as a religious holiday in the USSR and by the time the communist regime fell, and Christmas returned to the forefront of the winter celebrations she had been fully ensconced in the Red Room, where Christmas and all other holidays (including birthdays) didn't exist. Nothing did beyond the mission. Then in 2006, Clint pulled her out from the blood drenched darkness that was her life since she was a little girl and brought her home for Christmas. American Christmas overwhelmed her at first and it still overwhelmed her. Like now, standing in an all year Christmas store in DC with Steve.

Christmas paraphernalia filled the floor space of the shop. Santas from the jolly rustic kind with rosy cheeks and big rotund bellies, grandfatherly smiles on their faces and grabbed in their bright red and white suits; to Santas playing the saxophone and guitars and other instruments, Santas in bathing suits holding a surfboard, and every other imaginable activity in every imaginable race. Not mention the plethora of reindeer, snowmen, polar bears and penguins (even though penguins are native strictly to the southern hemisphere). The more religious decorations included Nativity scenes in every imaginable artistic style, angels and stars. Doves and various other birds. Shoved into a corner was Hanukkah stuff, almost as if it was forgotten, the blue and white drowning in the onslaught of red and green. From every corner hung wreathes and boughs of holly, and Christmas trees.

Plastic trees from tacky and unrealistic to trees so life like she almost through they were real. Christmas lights wound around them, blinking or just a steady warm glow. Decorations hung from their branches with angels or stars topping them. It was difficult to move in the story, even for a petite slender woman like her. Steve, with his bulk and board shoulders, reminded her of a bull in a china shop. "We didn't have stores like this back in Brooklyn," he said, side stepping down an aisle with Christmas elves on either side. She found their paints faces creepy. "Why are we here again?" he asked.

"To buy Christmas decorations. You said you wanted some, right?"

"Yeah, but we got a nice selection at Hallmark, I don't need that much. Just a few knickknacks here and there to make the apartment—"

"—less drab?" She arched a brow. She hated how his apartment decor. It was stale, empty. It felt like a bunch of junior level agents bought a bunch of things at IKEA and put it together, thinking if it looked vintage he'd like it. The only things that felt _Steve_ in the entire place were his shield, clothes, books and movies and the few pictures he had, and the food in the fridge. Everything else felt manufactured, artificial. He made a face at that.

"I was going to say more festive, but if you're going for depressing I guess that works," he said with a little shrug. "Whoa!" he steadied a glass bobble, eyes a bit wide as he removed his hands with glacial slowness. "I feel like if I sneeze I'll break something."

The probability of that happening is high. "At least they don't have a you break it you bought it policy." She looked around at the glass bobbles. "I think." She picked up a penguin with a scarf and hat, frowning at its overt cheerfulness. She didn't understand why people spent money on junk that came out once a year. If she wanted to decorate her house, she'll go out and buy stuff from Pier 1 Imports. At least that was secular, she could have it all out all year round. "Do you know what you're looking for?"

"Well, you said this is a good place to buy a tree." He grimaced. "I'm not sure though," he said as he inspected the fake trees on display. "Seems a bit… fake."

"They're fake trees Rogers. They're more economical than live ones. You just put it in a box after Christmas is over and take it out next year. No hassle, no paying fifty dollars for a thing you'll just toss into the trash come New Year."

"Someone is being a Scrooge," he said, his tone teasing. "Do you hate Christmas or something? You didn't seem to mind it so much last year."

"I…" she frowned, thinking about last year. "You know what Thor did after we left?" she picked up another knickknack, an elf with a smiling face and rosy cheeks. She set it back down on the stand. "What about this tree? It's nice and looks realistic."

"I'm not paying two hundred dollars for a plastic tree. I rather pay fifty dollars and get a live one." He shoved his hands into his arm pits. She had come to recognized that as him closing off from the situation. "And what did Thor do?"

"He took his Yule Log and started a bonfire on the Tower's Quinjet landing pad." She smirked, it widened upon seeing his blush. She figured out at the party last year he was weak for her smirk. It seemed that he was still weak for it. "Someone called the NYFD and the Fire Chief had a little chat with Tony."

"Explains why Thor wasn't invited for the Presidential Christmas Dinner last week," he said, looking at one of the less realistic trees. "Idunno, Natasha, I just… it's a fake tree. Didn't you ever have a Christmas tree? Gone out to pick one?"

"Like you have?" she arched a brow. She had gone Christmas tree hunting once or twice with Clint and his kids. It was cold, messy, with Cooper and Lila prone to sibling bickering. Clint and Laura ended up cranky, especially Clint when he had to foot a fifty-dollar bill for a stupid tree that would be dead in a month. Then there was the gift shop and the whining for treats and the new ornaments for the tree. The last time it had been rainy, so the ground was muddy, and Clint got mud all over himself as he got down on his side to cut the tree down.

Then getting it home was a hassle as she and Clint manhandled the poor tree into the house with Laura shouting at Lila and Cooper to help her get the Christmas boxes down from the attic and find the tree stand and would someone for the love of God get a gallon of water. Setting the tree up straight, this part Cooper and Lila took an active part in and they enjoyed tightening the screws down to hold the tree in place. Then Clint bitched about untangling the lights, she helped Laura with the other boxes while the children complained and fought over who was going to put up what ornaments this year. After several hours of fighting and shouting ("Cooper, be nice to your sister!" "Lila don't antagonize your brother!" "Both of you knock it off otherwise Santa will skip our house this year!") the tree was up and decorated. Cooper was too big for Clint to lift, so he hoisted Lila onto his shoulders and she placed the star on top. She always felt like a third wheel, watching the Bartons cheer as Lila topped the tree. All that for a pretty temporary house plant. It didn't matter how many times Lila called her "Auntie Nat" or Clint insisted she belonged, this was a private family ritual and she always felt like she was intruding, tracking darkness and blood through it.

"I have," Steve said, sounding defensive. "One of the nurses Mam worked with, her husband's brother owned a tree lot, he'd let us get a tree at a discount." He had that smile on his face, a melancholic upturn of his lips. He wore that when he thought of Peggy, after he got back from visiting her (she had taken to driving him some times to Peggy's nursing home and then taking him to get Russian comfort food). It was a longing smile, him wanting to go back to the way things were, to his time; to go _home_. "When I was little, Mam and I would carry the tree back to our place, but when I got bigger I would do it myself. Wasn't the prettiest tree on the lot, skinny and scrawny and not filled out. Kinda like me" — he gave her another smile, one she couldn't quiet read — "but Mam said it had heart. She said it didn't matter what it looked like so long as it had heart." He picked up an ornament with a boy and his mother singing. "Guess she was talking about me in a way."

"She was right," she said. He gave her another smile and set the ornament down. "I don't remember much of my life before the Red Room, but we had New Year's trees."

"New Year's trees?" he arched a brow. She nodded, smiling at the thought. They never had a real tree, the land lord forbade it, instead her father would cut out a tree from rare green paper and they'd tape paper circles and stars to it. Come New Year's Day she'd fine a few presents, mostly ballet magazines but some clothing items too, beneath its papery branches. She had loved the little paper tree taped to the wall. Warmed by the love of her father and grandmother, it was one of the few happy memories she had of her childhood.

"It's how the government rebranded Christmas trees after the Bolshevik Revolution. New Year's trees." She stopped in front of a tree, it was silver with white lights. It was a bit taller than him, perfect for his apartment and was only a hundred and fifty dollars. "It's not two hundred," she said. He frowned. "Oh, what's wrong with this one?"

"It's silver. Christmas trees aren't silver." He sighed, big broad shoulders rising and falling as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I dunno, Natasha. I just, a fake tree doesn't feel like Christmas."

"Think of it this way Rogers," she said, "a real tree is a hassle. You have to chop it down and then keep it watered, plus it sheds needles. After the holidays you just throw the dead thing out, so that's a waste of how much money you spent on the damn thing. On top of that setting it up is a hassle, you have to get the tree stand and screw it down and make sure there is enough towels to catch overflows of water. Then the lights and—"

"Don't call me that," he said.

"Don't call you what?"

"Rogers. You call me Rogers when you're annoyed or upset with me," he said, "don't."

She arched a brow, surprised that was his takeaway. "Okay, but real trees are such a hassle, and there is no way we'll find one so close to Christmas. Which is tomorrow," she said.

"I saw a lot on the way, had plenty of trees left, nice ones too." His lips turned up in a shit-eating grin. "We can go there. It's on the way back to my place."

Damn it, Rogers! "Steve—"

"C'mon, Nat" — he flushed — "N-Natasha, I meant Natasha." He shook his head. "Anyway, let's go and get a real tree. It'll show you that it's not all that bad."

It took all her training to keep her expression neutral. She liked it when he called her Nat. It felt intimate in a unique way, as if he considered a fast friend. She huffed. "Just—" it was tempting to give in and let him buy the tree that made him happy, but he had asked her to help him get decorations last year and that was all the Christmas tree was: a decoration. "Look, I'll buy the damn thing if you don't want to. Trust me, once you done a fake tree for a few years you'll realize nothing beats a fake tree."

"No, no, I'll buy this one," he said, gesturing to the realistic tree. "Don't really have time to take care of a live tree, either." He sounded defeated. "Too busy. And like you said, Christmas is tomorrow. A real tree is best gotten at the beginning of the season."

She nodded, though she didn't feel happy about this victory. "Have you tried asking Marcia out? That Spanish girl?" She smirked at him and he looked awkward and uncomfortable again. "Bet she'd like it if you took her ice skating."

"Not really interested," he said, flagging down a clerk. She folded her arms over her chest. "Thanks though."

"What about Danielle from logistics? Sure, she wouldn't mind a walk to look at the Christmas lights. She loves Christmas, have you seen her?"

"Not ready that much festive cheer." He spoke with the clerk, who nodded and went in the back to get the boxed-up version of the two-hundred-dollar tree. "Why the sudden interest with my love life?"

At least he didn't say non-existent. "Nobody should be alone on Christmas, Steve. Toldja that last year." She watched him hand over the money. The clerk was a bit surprised he paid in cash, thankfully there was no one else besides them in the store. He thanked the clerk and took the box, before flashing her a grin.

"But I'm not alone," he said, and bumped his hip against hers. "I have you." His smile was warm and open, inviting her into his world and life. She shook her head.

"You need someone other than me, Steve. We're just friends." She swallowed, the last two words sticking in her throat. Just friends. She liked him, liked him a lot but there could never be a romance between them. He was in a sense her commanding officer, she was his subordinate. Fraternization was against Shield policy, though she had a feeling Fury would look the other way considering she and Steve are his two best agents. The kiss beneath the mistletoe at Stark's party was a memory she locked away and tried to forget about (especially Bruce's inane prophecy about them getting married); yet in the dark moments of the night when her nightmares assaulted her, she imagined Steve's lips on her (and on other parts of her), kissing away her tears and telling her beautiful words to chase the darkness away. "Just friends."

He sighed as if he carried the world on his shoulders. "Right." He let her push the door open for him and the cold air hit them like a welcoming punch in the gut from the stuffy overbearing heat of the Christmas shop. She zipped up her jacket and put her gloves on. He set the box down and pulled his wool pea coat on, buttoning up and putting on his scarf and gloves and pushed the beanie down over his head to cover his ears. She watched him as he scooped up the box.

"Don't like the cold?" she quipped.

"Well, spend seventy years in ice and tell me how you like it." He winked. She laughed, tugging up her coat collar to hide the flush on her cheeks. The city was picture perfect for Christmas: garlands of evergreen boughs hung on the lampposts and door frames, Nutcrackers and polar bears stood in the windows of various shops, flags with _Merry Christmas_ and _Season's Greets_ hung on the lampposts below the evergreen boughs. Christmas lights everywhere and the National Mall had the giant National Christmas tree already up and lit. She could feel the festivities in the air, mingled with the chill of snow and winter. She carried the bags from Hallmark and Steve carried the box containing his new tree. Their Shield badges got them a free ride on the bus to his apartment complex. They didn't say much, Steve hummed Christmas songs and she debated if she get him something or not (she got Clint something and sent everyone else — minus Steve — Christmas cards).

"Any plans for after we set up the decorations?" she asked as they approached his apartment building. He buzzed in, the ringing loud and harsh, the door opened, he held it for her and she slipped in and he followed.

"I was hoping you'd stay and we can have a nice Christmas dinner. I found an entire chicken for nine dollars," he said, sounding a bit awed at the price. "Could've gotten it cheaper back in the day."

"Well, you have to adjust for inflation, Steve," she said as the climbed the stairs. "But are you sure one chicken can feed the both of us."

"Oh, I got two," he said. "I could polish off an entire chicken on my own." He grinned. "Maybe we can go to Midnight Mass like we did last year?"

"You're going to Midnight Mass?" she asked, surprised that he'd do that again. Last year it was understandable, he had only been out of the ice for a handful of months and he wanted something that felt familiar in this uncanny alien world. He shrugged.

"Yeah, I went every year when I was a kid, all the way up until I joined the Army." He frowned. "We even had a small service in the Army, if… if it was safe of course." They reached his floor, which was the third. His neighbour came out; Natasha glared at Agent 13. "Kate!" Steve said, brightening at the sight of the woman. Natasha's frowned deepened.

"Steve, what's… this?" she asked, looking at the box he held. Natasha glared icy daggers at the other woman. Fury had pissed her off when he assigned another agent (especially Agent 13 of all people — did Fury even _realize_ who Agent 13 was related to?) to protect Steve. She was his partner and liaison into the 21st Century, she was almost glued to his hip (it wouldn't be the first time someone mistook her for his girlfriend as they wandered DC), he didn't need Sharon Carter, hovering over him.

"A Christmas tree," he said, grimacing, "it's fake."

"Oh, no." Sharon wrinkled her nose, Natasha hated the fact that it made her look cute and the fact that Steve laughed a little. "I hate fake trees. They're so dull and tacky."

"I know," he said, shooting her a brief glare. She glared right back. "I always had a real tree growing up."

"I bet they didn't have fake trees back in your day."

"Nah." He shook his head. "We had the real deal. Well, someone" — he shot her another glare — "said I should try doing it the modern way."

Sharon nodded, glancing at her with a challenging look. For her part, she lifted her chin and tilted her head in a curious dog fashion, narrowing her eyes a bit. She stepped closer to Steve, trying to hint at that Steve was hers and Sharon can kindly fuck off back to her little creepy spy apartment. "You gonna decorate it?" Sharon asked, a warm smile on her face.

"Yeah, Natasha and I are," he said. "We're gonna decorate the apartment actually, so if you'd like to come and—"

"Actually," she said, jumping in before Steve could finish or Sharon could commit. "I'm sure _Kate_ has a busy schedule, and we don't want to take up too much of her time, now do we Steve?"

"Uh…"

"My schedule isn't that busy," Sharon said, "I'd be more than—"

"I'm sure we can manage without you," she said, giving Sharon a blithe smile, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a jerk of her head. "It was so kind of you to offer. I'm so glad Steve has a kindhearted neighbour like you, I'm sure you read all about him in the papers."

"Oh… erm… yeah, I did," Sharon said, the smile falling from her face a little bit. Good, let her fear me, I'm Black Widow and Captain America is— "So happy to know you're helping him adjust."

"Yeah, Nat" — he cleared his throat — "Natasha's great. She's been helping me a lot. Would've been lost without her."

"Awesome," Sharon said, it sounded fake and forced. Her smile widened when the blonde woman retreated back into her apartment. She gloated while Steve unlocked the door.

"You don't have to be so catty to Kate," he grumbled as he hauled the tree inside, she followed, kicking the door close with her heel.

"I wasn't being catty, Steve," she said.

"You were, and you should apologize for being rude." He gave her a disapproving look as he took off his beanie and gloves. "I like her," he said, "and I don't appreciate you being rude to her."

She set her mouth in a line, swallowing and keeping her expression neutral. The sudden desire to expose Sharon for what she was overwhelming. The reasoning behind it was petty, exposing Sharon would turn Steve off, creating a void that she would fill and— she shook her head. She learned long ago that love was for children, that she could never have a happily ever after. "You should ask Hayley out, she works in IT. Said you have pretty blue eyes." She cocked a brow, a tiny smile spreading on her lips. "She's nicer than Kate."

He scowled and for the first time she felt like she had overstepped some unwritten rule; the way he tore off his coat made her flinch. "Is there something about Kate you're not telling me?" he asked, his voice curt. "Do you _know_ Kate?"

"First time I met her," she said, "and you're right, I was being judgmental. I shouldn't have assumed that Kate wasn't nice."

The tension eased from his shoulders a bit, and he gave her a small little smile. "She is. We talk sometimes in the hall. I've asked her out for coffee. She uh… hasn't accepted." He frowned. "Says she's really busy at the hospital."

Of course she is. She set the bags down, taking off her own outer garments and hanging them upon the hooks by his door. He went down the hall where his record player was and in a few moments Bing Crosby was crooning Christmas songs, his iconic voice filled the apartment and the drab manufactured feel of Steve's apartment brightened just a bit. She began pulling out the decorations: a snowman salt and pepper shaker with a tooth pick holder for his hat, a few throw pillows with Santa and snowflakes, the entire Willow Tree Nativity scene and various other knickknacks and a bunch of ornaments, most came from the Keepsake premium and holiday lines. Steve came out with a few boxes, their haul from last year's after Christmas sales. He pulled out garlands of fake evergreen boughs, a balancing metal Santa on his reindeer, a Christmas village starter kit (along with several additions) and strings of LED Christmas lights. He whistled while he worked, and she was surprised on how in key he was.

The minutes ticked by, Bing Crosby faded to Louis Armstrong's signature raspy voice as he sang _It's A Wonderful World_. Steve went back to flip the record or change it, Jazz Age greats playing Christmas music or the face pace beats of swing. She found her foot tapping along, the dance moves playing out in her head. The rhythm of swing was intoxicating, and she could imagine him, fleet of foot with a flushed face and a mile-wide grin at a dance hall, enjoying himself the way every young man did back in the 40s. With each new song the apartment felt more like Steve's home, had a deeper feel of Christmas. "So," she said, setting one of the ladies for the Christmas village down, "favorite dance?"

"Oh, uh…" he looked up from the paper directions for the Christmas tree, he said something that she couldn't hear.

"Didn't catch that, Rogers," she said, setting more figurines down. The village was beautiful, mimicking a rustic mid-Victorian town, with snow and children and all sorts of festive decorations. It was different from Clint's, chipped and worn with some pieces broken and glued back together, a clear sign that children had not heeded their parents' warnings and with gleeful eagerness played with the porcelain figures. "What do you think? Pretty nice huh." She heard him get up and shuffle his way over.

"Yeah, looks real nice Natasha," he said. She noticed his pink cheeks. "Now we just have to get the tree up." He frowned at the crumbled directions in his hand. "I can't believe you talked me into getting a fake tree. Never had a fake tree before."

"Once you get used to it you'll love it," she said as she went to peer at the tree in the box. He had strung lights all around the main living space of his apartment; his shield was propped up against the banister, glaringly patriotic amongst the Christmas decorations almost as if Steve couldn't quiet shake the Fourth of July. "What about here?" she asked, standing in front of the window that lead to his tiny balcony. "It's opposite the Christmas village and doesn't block the tv."

He bit his lip. "I just… I'm not sure, Natasha," he said, wiggling his hands into his pockets and in doing so pushing his jeans down further on his narrow hips; she ran the tip of her tongue along her teeth. "It's a _fake_ tree."

"Stop getting hung up on technicalities," she said, walking between his coffee table and couch. "It'll look nice and festive. Plus, you got an ultra-realistic one," she added. "Where do you keep your bedsheets?"

"I don't know why we need one," he said, pulling the tree out. "You keep telling me it's a fake tree."

"Rogers."

He sighed as he set the tree down on the couch. "Bedroom closet, top shelf to the left, towards the window."

"Thanks." She went down the hall and into his bedroom, passing the generic landscape paintings that Shield felt brightened his apartment. She knew he was an artist, and she figured he'd hang his own work or work of artists he liked on his walls not this subpar photography. His bedroom was bleak and bland, no pictures hung on the walls and it had a cold just-moved-in feel to it. His made his bed with neat militaristic precision and on the nightstand with his lamp was a few items. She glanced over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't coming to see what was taking her so long. He wasn't, and she went over to his night stand. A small worn bible with a rosary, she flipped the crucifix over noting the name of the church from which he got it, the bible also had the church's name on it. She knew his faith comforted him, it being timeless and familiar.

An old US Army issued compass sat there, she picked it up and opened it. A faded newspaper clipping of a pretty young woman tucked into the top. She twisted about, making a little curious sound over the fact that the compass still worked. She set that down and looked at the three pictures. The woman, a young man with slick back hair and a suave grin, and a group of men in a hodge-podge collection of military uniforms. She recognized British infantry, French resistance and American GIs. The realization stuck in her throat, these people were the ones he left behind. The woman must be Peggy Carter; so different from the dying old woman he visited in the nursing home.

She closed her eyes, sympathy coiling in her gut and chilling her bones. He stared at the faces of those he loved and lost every night: the last thing he saw at night and the first thing he saw in the morning. The pain twisted like a knife in her heart, how willfully blind she was to his pain, how he was suffering. She should have noticed it beforehand; she suffered too, was still suffering, from her time in the Red Room. It was shameful though, the last year with him laid bare as her mind raced along Steve's behavior, how he had good days and bad days, sometimes he'd drift through the work week half there, caught up in his past. How he tried to hide the dark circles beneath his eyes from his insomnia, that distant thousand-yard stare whenever someone talked to him. The paling of his cheeks as a sudden flashback took hold whenever a car backfired, or they entered the gun range. He was jumpier somedays and more subdued the next, and the most obvious tell that she should have picked up on (because she did the same thing for a while after Clint saved her) was his willingness to take risks with a high probability of bodily harm, jumping out of an airplane without a parachute seemed to be his favorite. The behavior was subtle, and most people would miss it if they weren't intimately familiar with his behavior, but she noticed.

And did nothing. "Some friend I am," she hissed. He needed her, and she offered him the barest of comfort. Just enough for him to feel comfortable around her, but not enough for him to confined in her. Clint had been there for her when she needed help adjusting to a life without the rigid control that the Red Room imposed on her. What did she do for Steve? Hung out with him and eased him into the 21st Century but being there for him and helping him feel less like a man in exile (which he was) … nope. He had put on a stalwart soldiering face, smiled and said he was fine and she believed him, like an idiot, she believed him. No wonder he's so found of Sharon, she probably showed a bit of a damn for him. She turned away from the nightstand and opened his closet, chuckling at the clothes that hung up in the closet. At least she helped him dress less like an old man and he had a few shirts that fit him properly now.

"Natasha? You doing okay in there? Did you find them?" Steve called. She looked up and found the sheets, pristine and white and folded with the same militaristic neatness.

"Yeah, got them," she said and pulled one out. "Be out in a minute." She closed the closet and headed back into the living room. He was standing by the tree, in all its plastic manufactured glory. It felt wrong next to him, with the rest of the Christmas decorations. It felt like the rest of his apartment: fake, bland, manufactured, void of personality. This wasn't him. It was tacky, something she chosen for him because _this was how we do it now_. Christmas was a time of tradition, of preserving tradition. "No."

"What?" he frowned. "What do you mean no?"

"Put it back, we're going to the tree lot and getting you a tree." She set the sheet on the couch. I need to be a better friend to him, a better person for him. "You're right, it doesn't feel like Christmas without a real tree."

He looked around. "Where is the real Natasha and what did you do with her?" he quipped. She bit the inside of both cheeks to keep from smiling, but the way his eyes brightened she knew this had been the right choice. Even if she was changing her mind. "You sure about this? I mean, it is a nice fake tree. Spent two hundred dollars on it."

"I'm sure, Steve. We can use it next year or something."

"We?" he arched a brow. She cleared her throat, berating herself for letting it slip, for coming to associate the holiday season with being around him. That they did Christmas together; that it felt _right_ spending Christmas with him, as if she always belonged.

" _You_ ," she said, "you can use it next year."

He shrugged. "Alright," he said, wrangling the tree back into shape for boxing up. "If you insist." He put it back in the box and closed it, pushing the tree beneath the coffee table. "Shall we ma'am?" he gestured to the door. She laughed, heading that way and bundling up again. For a moment she thought about grabbing his scarf and wrapping it around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss the way she seen the women do on the Hallmark Christmas movies, but she didn't, instead she watched him. "Ready?" he asked, once he had bundled himself up again. She nodded, and they headed to the tree lot.

* * *

Overhead the sky was a wintery steel grey, fat snowflakes falling in lazy zigzags towards earth. The tree lot was large for the city with plenty of plump viridian Christmas trees. The calming smell of pine filled her nose, covering the stink of the city. In her hands she held hot cider. "This is real good," Steve said as they wandered through the rows of trees; the lot even had tree stands, and the owner even set aside one for them.

"You know they just heated up apple juice," she said, drinking hers. "Added some cinnamon and cloves."

"Stop ruining the fantasy," he chided, bumping her hip with his. "Seriously, you… well last Christmas you weren't so scroogey."

"That's not even a word, Steve."

"Is too, it's an… adjective. An adjective, to describe someone that is very ba-humbug during the Christmas season."

"You made that up, it's not a word."

"No, I didn't" — he placed his hand over his heart — "scout's honor. It's a real world." He smiled.

"We'll see," she said, unable to stop the smile from spreading across her face. She took another sip of her drink. "What about this tree?" she asked, stopping in front of a tree. It looked full and plump, bright green with healthy branches. Steve looked around, running the tip of his tongue along his upper lip. "I like it."

"It's okay," he said, after a while. His opinion sounded put-upon to her. "I'll know the right tree when I see it."

"There's a method?"

"There's always a method to madness," he said, grinning, the smiling reaching his blue eyes and with his cheeks rosy from the cold he looked handsome. She glanced at her feet. "Well, expect like… what Hydra does… there's no method to that."

"True." She moved to another tree, touching the soft delicate needles, snapping one or two to get a whiff of its scent. She almost suggested the tree but noticed the hole in the middle. She moved on, looking here and there but each of the trees seemed to have a flaw or something that made it feel imperfect.

"Never thought I see you here, Romanoff, looking for a tree," a nasally nasty voice said. She centered herself with a breath, before turning around and smiling at Rumlow.

"Brock," she said with false cheer in her voice, "fancy meeting you here. I thought you said you were going home for Christmas, where was it again? Athol, Idaho?"

"I'm from the Bronx," he said, narrowing his eyes. "What about you? Don't you usually go up to Barton's?"

She shrugged, keeping her face neutral. She had been dealing with men like Rumlow her entire life. Arrogant and brutal, with a cruelty streak deep as the Marianna Trench. He liked being a STRIKE soldier because it allowed him to exercise a bit of that cruelty. She was pretty sure he was a sociopath. Why Shield ever felt it was okay to put a gun in this man's hand was beyond her. "I like to change things up a bit. You?"

"Possible situation developing in Mongolia," he said, rolling his shoulders, "Fury wants STRIKE on standby in case something pops."

There was a reason she was the best at what she does, the surprise didn't show on her face even though she and Steve would have gotten messages about any possible situation in Mongolia developing. "Of course, that's understandable. Too bad, I'm sure you have family in Athol—"

"Bronx, Romanoff."

"Right, right," she said, nodding and giving him a pleasant smile. She finished her cider. "Looking for a tree?"

"Why else would I be here? Have to get into the Christmas spirit."

"That's good, I'm glad you aren't as big of a scrooge as you let on, Rumlow," she said, wandering to another tree and hoping he'd take a hint. She knew he wouldn't, men like Rumlow needed a punch in the fact to get the message. Sure, enough he followed her.

"I enjoy Christmas just as much as the next person," he said, doggedly following her at her heels. She made a noncommitted noise in response, tuning out his inane chatter as she looked at trees. Once or twice he got a bit too close and she'd shoot him a glare, it pleased her to no end when he swallowed and backed off. She glanced up looking for Steve's tall frame, hoping that if Rumlow spotted Steve he'd get the message and leave alone. She'd squelch the rumors about her and Steve dating after the holidays.

"Nat!" Steve came trotting around the corner. "Nat, I found the — oh, hi Rumlow," Steve said.

"Nat?" Rumlow arched a brow as she shot Steve a glare. She appreciated his desire to give her a nickname, since that meant he considered her a friend but at the same time she wanted to maintain an air of professional decorum between them. Especially, around people like Rumlow. "Are you two dating?"

Don't blush, don't blush, _don't blush!_ She glanced at Steve and he flushed, his face going cherry red as he glanced at his toes. "Well, we're uh—"

Rumlow snickered, clapping his hands and acting like a child with an early Christmas present. There was a mean glint in his eyes. He obeyed Steve, but there was no respect. She also felt that Rumlow was a bit scared of Steve too; the gentle giant mannerism belied his true strength. "Wow, Rogers, you move fast," he said, "gotta tell Cruz she's outta luck." He stepped closer to Steve, as if they were friends. "But seriously, why did you pick Romanoff?"

"Rumlow, back off," she said, knowing where this was going. Rumlow was trying to find Steve's buttons and he figured the fastest way to do that was make a pass at her.

"I like her," Steve said, furrowing his brow. She wanted to put herself between the two but doing that would further confirm Rumlow's belief that they were dating. She could do nothing but watch and pray that Steve kept a level head. The other man shot her a glare. "I don't see why it matters to you though, Rumlow."

"Oh, it doesn't," he said. "I just… want you to be aware about her" — he gave Steve a pitying look but saved the nasty smirk for her — "she's been passed around the office."

Now Steve looked confused and insulted. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, taking a step back from Rumlow. She itched to put a bullet in Rumlow's head, just to make him shut up, to stop him from poisoning Steve's opinion of her.

"You know," Rumlow said, and thrust his hips in an erotic fashion. "Everyone." He gave a nonchalant shrug. "I mean, she was a spy and assassin, how do you think she got close enough to kill her marks?" He flashed Steve a grin. "Hate to see someone like you date used goods like her."

Used goods. The insult stung, reducing her to a simple whore, a dimwitted slut who's only usefulness was for a good fuck. Her throat tightened as she swallowed down her tears. She knew Rumlow was a cruel bastard, but he could be downright nasty when he wanted to be. She tried to put her past behind her, be something more than the seducing killer the Red Room made her, but it seemed that is all anyone ever cared to remember about her. It hurt that he was telling this to Steve. She looked away when she felt Steve's eyes on her, not wanting him to see how ashamed she was, how much Rumlow's words hurt her.

"Shit!" Rumlow shouted, snapping her gaze back to the two men. Steve looked murderous, his eyes chips of ice and Rumlow was clutching his face. "You hit me!"

"I'll do a lot more than that if you don't apologize," he growled, grabbing Rumlow by the collar of his coat. "Now apologize to Natasha." Giving Rumlow a little shake as he held him a good six inches off the ground.

"Like hell man!" Rumlow yelped when Steve tossed him to the ground, groaning at the impact. He towered over the down man, hands clenched into fists. She knew Steve could kill Rumlow with a few well-placed blows, but she also knew Steve was a good man and a good man didn't kill just because he could. Rumlow didn't know that though. He paled, eyes wide in fear. Steve used every ounce of muscle and every inch of height he had to cow Rumlow. "Alright, alright," he said. "Sorry."

"Not to me" — he jerked his head toward her — "to her." His eyes narrowed. "And mean it."

Rumlow looked at her and swallowed, "sorry," he said. Steve growled, animalistic and low in his throat. "Sorry, I'm sorry I called you uh… a whore."

She let out a breath, the hurt unwinding from her heart. Rumlow didn't mean it, not a single syllable, but if she didn't acquiesce this could come to blows. "Apology accepted."

"Go." Steve said, and she watched Rumlow scramble to his feet, jogging away. He looked at his knuckles and shook his hand. "You okay?" he asked, warm concern in his eyes. He shot a glance in the direction Rumlow took. "Can't he believe he said that about you." He shook his head. "Nobody says that about my best girl to my face." He pulled her into a brief hug. She could smell his cologne: cypress and cedar, a fresh woodsy scent with earthy notes, sharp and crisp. She shuddered, enjoying the smell a tad too much. Thankfully, he mistook her shudder for that of relief. "It's okay Nat."

"You need to uh… curtail it on calling me Nat." She pulled away, smiling at him. "I appreciate it, but… please, just Natasha."

"Right, sorry." He flushed, a quirky smile on his face.

"So, this perfect tree?" she looked at him, watching his face light up again. "Wanna show me?"

"Yeah! This way," he said, taking her hand and showing her the tree.

* * *

The tree was indeed perfect, full and plump with no holes. They bought it and carried it out, heading back to his place. "Steve, let me have some of the weight," she said as they walked along the street. People glanced at them, annoyed that they insisted on lugging the tree on the overcrowded sidewalk. They tried to get on the bus but the bus drive shook his head.

"I got it, I don't need your help." He had one hand wrapped around the center of the tree, the other holding the tree stand. He made carrying both appear effortless; she knew both weight next to nothing for him.

"I know you got it, but we can give away that you're… well you," she said, tugging at the top of the tree. "C'mon, let me help carry it." She didn't need a swarm of paparazzi and over eager fans swarming them, ruining their blissful anonymity. She shot him a glare and gave the top of the tree another firm tug.

"I got it." He smiled at her, refusing.

"Stop being stubborn." She hunched her shoulders as they walked along the sidewalk, people giving them a wide berth, some shaking their heads and muttering about their rudeness. "C'mon Steve."

"You're the stubborn one." He refused to share any of the burden with her. Typical of him as she was coming to learn. He tended to carry the world on his shoulders, bottling up his problems and shouldering them alone. "I'm fine. These things aren't even heavy."

"Excuse me for trying to spare you the paparazzi," she seethed, tugging again on the top of the tree. "And I know they aren't heavy to you, but other people don't know that."

"We're doing a fine job then." He smiled at the people as they walked by. "Would stop tugging at the top, you'll make it difficult for the star to sit right."

"I think I'm pretty recognizable with or without feats of strength."

"Your impossible." She rolled her eyes, quelling her complaints for now since it would do her no good to argue further with him. "You have a star?"

"Yup," he said, "I bought it last year on sale." They stopped at the crosswalk, she hit the button and they waited for the green figure to appear. She gave people blithe smiles as they looked at her and Steve with raised brows. The walk sign appeared, and they marched across, retracing their steps back to his apartment, the sky was beginning to darken as the sun began to set behind the clouds, the snow still coming down. "You still going to Clint's this year?"

"May have to call him when we reach your place, don't know if I'll be able to make it out of the city before the snow sets in." She shook her head when a snowflake alighted on her nose, the little blast of could making her shiver.

"Oh, well… if you can't you're welcome to stay at my place, we can go to Midnight Mass and then come home and keep each other warm."

Her eyes widen at that, imagining Steve naked before her, his hands roaming her body and mouth memorizing all the dips and curves of her skin. She did that once, long ago, with Alexi… before he died. And once with James, before the KGB found them and they had to flee into the night in opposite directions. "Ubiraysya iz kanavy, Romanov," she grumbled beneath her breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing Steve," she said, "and if it ends up that way, I don't mind crashing at your place for the night. We still need to wrap presents."

"Already did that, sent Tony and Bruce's gifts already to them, was going to give you yours and Clint's to take with you," he said. She shot him a glance over her shoulder, noting the pleased smile he had on his face. "I like to get things done early."

"I see that." His apartment complex came into view, his bike in a protective canvas covering, his car parked next to it. Snow was covering both items. They stood horizontally to the door, so he could buzz them in and in they went, walking up the stairs and pass Sharon's door and to the end of the hall. Thankfully, the other woman wasn't out. Clint, however, was standing at Steve's door with a red envelop in hand and a box, she noted the awkward expression in his eyes before it vanished and was replaced with his cool neutral perception. "Clint, hi, wasn't expecting you."

"Wasn't expecting me either," he quipped, a smile flashing across his face. "How you doing, Steve?"

"Not bad, cold outside."

"Usually is when it's snowing," he said. "Is that a real tree?" he gestured to the tree between them and gave her a curious look. "You convinced her to get a real tree?"

"Well… in her defense she convinced me to get a fake tree," Steve said, offering the tree stand to Clint. "Hold this, I'll let us in so we aren't standing in the hall."

"Gotcha," Clint said, giving a small grunt as he accepted the heavy weight of the tree stand. "You carried this all the way from the lot."

"Clint, did you forget who he is?" she asked, her tone teasing as Steve opened the door. Clint went in first, then her and Steve brought up the rear. He nudged the door close with his shoulder. The door boomed shut, shattering the quiet of his apartment. She and Clint stared at him and his ears went pink.

"Sorry," he said, sounding sheepish. "Just put it down where the sheet is Clint." Her friend nodded and he sat it down. She let go of the tree, Steve handling it just fine on his own and he set the tree in the stand. "Can someone tell me if its straight?"

Time honed skills in this department had her and Clint telling Steve which way to push or pull the tree until looked centered, Clint was better at it than her, and it only took a few minutes for them to get it straight. Then they dove for the base. "I'm going to win," she said, twisting the two screws on her side.

"Nah, gonna beat you, been doing this since I was a kid."

"Wanna bet Barton?" her fingers twisting the screws faster, he laughed, their little competition. "Loser…"

"Kisses Steve?" he quipped, she stopped. Clint waggled his brows and she shot him a furious icy glare. "Cause, I'm not gonna be the one losing."

She growled, twisting her screws faster, hoping to make up for lost time. "Bud' ty proklyat, Clint," she hissed, when he laughed and declared himself the winner. "Ya ne tseluyu yego."

"A bet is a bet," Clint said as he wiggled out from beneath the tree.

"It wasn't a bet, there was nothing to gain from winning, besides would you have kissed him if you had lost."

"Sorry, but I already have a significant other," he said and flashed her his left ring finger, the tattooed band around his finger the only indication of his marital status. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, wriggling out from beneath the tree. Steve had untangled the left over Christmas lights, a mish-mash of white and colored lights.

"This took longer than I thought," he said, "need to buy more white lights."

"Didn't you guys used to use candles?" Clint asked, taking one end of the string of lights and winding it around the Christmas tree. She grabbed the section Steve was holding, feeding it to Clint as he walked around the tree. It felt natural, doing this with him. She almost expected Lila and Cooper to come screaming into the living room with Laura behind them carrying a huge box of Christmas decorations. Instead Steve let out a forlorn sigh.

"Yeah," he said, "we did." He was silent for a few moments and she spared him a glance. He looked sad, troubled, caught up in the Christmases of his past. "Though lights are safer, no risk of the tree catching fire." He smiled, it didn't reach his eyes. "So… I'm happy for that."

"Yeah," Clint agreed as she handed him the last length of lights. He finished winding it around the tree and plugged it in. The tree burst into a bloom of white and colored lights. She always found the colored lights to be tacky, preferring the softer white lights. "Not bad."

"It's perfect," Steve said and went over to where they had stashed the ornaments. "You two can decorate, I'll put some music on and start dinner."

"Wait, you're gonna cook?" Clint asked. "I thought you could only make stuffing and those apple things?"

She arched a brow at Clint. "Baked apples." She pulled a box from her bag, it was the Christmas angel he had given her last year. The glossy porcelain and golden wings shimmered in the light of the tree, it had a crown of holy in its hair and it held a dove, a kind warm smile on its face. She cradled the angel in her hands, remembering how Steve gave it to her at Church, how they sang _Silent Night_ together; his rich tenor harmonizing with her higher and sweeter mezzo-soprano range. The way he had looked at her as they sang the last lines, his eyes so full of love and happiness. She had held onto that memory, using it to warm her when she felt the demons of her past bearing down on her. Even then, he had known vague details, stuff that he read from her Shield file, what he was able to pry from Clint, and what she had told him. Still, he looked at her like that that night. It was one of the few happy memories she had. She hung the angel up near the top of the tree. "Do you think this is a good spot?" she asked, drawing Steve and Clint's attention to her.

"It's okay," Clint said, sounding indifferent to the angel's location. Steve beamed though, as if she had done him a huge honor by hanging her ornament upon his tree.

"It's perfect, Nat — I mean, Natasha." His tongue darted over his lips, ears turning pink. "Perfect spot Natasha." Steve didn't notice Clint shooting her a look, she answered it with one of her own. Her friend's expression went blank and she wondered what he was thinking. There was nothing going on between her and Steve. Steve just liked giving nicknames. She figured it was how he determined close friendships. "Well, I'll be in the kitchen, just holler if you need me," he said, patting Clint on the back. He paused briefly at the record player, turning it on and Christmas carols and old timey Christmas songs filled the room. The static of the record player gave it a vintage feel and she could imagine Steve spending Christmas like this back in his day, with his lost friends.

She and Clint began to decorate the tree with gusto. She liked the Hallmark ornaments the best, but they did pick up some glass globes and some other more vintage Christmas ones. Amongst the clank and clatter of pots and pans, drifting over and harmonizing with the record was Steve's voice, a warm rich tenor that warmed her soul. "Okay, what's with him calling you 'Nat'? I thought only I called you Nat?"

"He gives nicknames to close friends." She shrugged. "I've told him to just call me Natasha." She hung a wreath ornament on one of the branches, before picking up a little reindeer.

"Uh-huh." Clint was silent, selecting ornaments and hanging them, formulating his next question. "So how long have you been pining for him."

She choked on her spit. "I'm not pining," she growled, "it's undignified." She lifted her chin. "I'm—"

"—Black Widow; and you don't _pine_ after your marks, forgot." He hung a few more and nudged her. "C'mon, don't stop now. Gotta make this tree look nice, besides you still have to kiss him."

"I'm not doing it, Clint. It was a stupid bet and we didn't even agree on anything in the case of me winning, ergo the bet is moot." Steve's singing drifted through the apartment, in perfect key with the record. She smiled, there was an Irish lilt to his singing, it was uniquely him.

"Bet's a bet." She could have punched him. "I brought some fake mistletoe if you—"

"No." She gave him her best icy glare. He blinked, shrugged and went back to hanging ornaments. "Just lay off it Clint."

"You haven't had a decent date since 2010. He's nice, wholesome, gentlemanly" — Clint dropped his voice — "Captain America—"

"And I'm Black Widow. A soldier and a spy, we don't mix. He's everything I'm not. It won't work. We're better off friends." Steve began to sing along to _Jingle Bell Rock_ , the song post-dated him, but the record must've been a collection of original contemporary classics.

"I can tell he likes you."

"He likes you-know-who down the hall." She jerked her head to the front door. "It's pathetic in a way, knowing she's lying to him and he's eating it up like a sap. He actually buys her cover story. I think he even said he tried asking her out once or twice."

"Well, considering who she's related to, I wouldn't be surprised he has the hots for her — Ow." Clint rubbed his ribs. "You hit hard."

"You don't find it creepy?"

"Never said that. Just said I'm not surprised." Clint hung a few more ornaments. "But I think he likes you better."

"We're friends Clint." She hung another ornament, her mind wanderin and wondering if Clint was right about Steve liking her better than Sharon. Of course, she knew it was impossible, Steve was just a nice guy, being friendly was his default interacting mode with people. He didn't like her. He liked Sharon, she saw it. How his pupils dilated a little bit when they ran into her earlier today. He's attracted to her. That may be true, but it could just be skin deep, she thought.

"If you're worried about what happened to Kyle happening to him then—"

"Clint drop it, I'm not… whatever you think I am with Steve. We're friends. Partners." She smiled. "Like we were." She looked towards the kitchen, smiling as she heard Steve sing _and we all want some figgey pudding and we won't go until we get some!_

"I remember you and I had a fling."

"Stop."

"Okay, okay." Clint raised his hands in surrender. She glowered at him and went back to decorating. Clint, however, was determined to be a pain in her ass tonight. "Did you tell him about tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's Christmas" — she shot him a withering glare — "I think he knows about Christmas."

"I meant the other thing. The one that you said: if I so much as breathe a word to it to anyone, you will kill me and make sure my body is never found." He set a baby Jesus ornament on the tree. "That other thing."

"No. And I will never. I'll take the secret to my grave."

"I bet he'd like it if you told him. I mean I brought a card and—" he stopped when they heard an undignified squawk echo through the apartment. They both looked towards the kitchen, Steve had been singing, harmonizing with whomever was playing on his record player.

"Sorry," he called, "can't hit that note."

"Didn't know he could sing." Clint hung the last ornament up. She hung her last one too. The tree filled with globes and figurines, the mismatched lights glinting off them. The sight did warm her, and she knew Steve would be pleased with their work. "He's got a good voice."

"Yeah" — a wistful smile spread across her face, she loved it when Steve sang. Her ears always picking up whenever he hummed or whistled a tune. He always sang some Irish folksong beneath his breath as he did pre-op inspections. — "he does."

Clint leaned in close to her. "You're doing it again. Either get over this contemplation of him or tell him how you feel."

Her jaw dropped, aghast that he would suggest the latter. "I can't tell him!" she hissed. Steve had taken up singing again. She put the last ornament on the tree and sat on the couch, staring at the Christmas village and the tree and the direction to the kitchen. "I can't tell him."

"Why not?" Clint plopped down next to her. "He may stop making googly eyes at you-know-who down the hall if he knows that there is someone right here."

"Shield policy forbids fraternization."

"Fury will look the other way, you two are his best agents, well after me." He smirked, grunting when she elbowed him again.

"My past… he… he won't accept it." She looked at her knees. For Steve to know what she had done in the Red Room, the people she killed, how red her ledger was, how bloodstained her hands are… no, he'd run away from that. Shun her maybe.

"He's a WWII vet, I'm sure he's done and seen worse."

"I'm… I'm… I can't…" she looked at him, "you know my other problem."

"There's ways around that now. Plus, I heard Tony was looking into getting Dr. Helen Cho as the Avengers' leading physician, she's doing some amazing biotech and cellular regeneration. Could help."

She huffed, twisting the hem of her shirt up in her hands. "I'm… I'm not good enough for someone like him."

"Nat," Clint said, taking her hands. "I brought you home to my apartment, Laura was living with me at the time, you were broken and scared and yet I knew that deep down you were a good person. Look at how far you came from when I found you. You are a kind, compassionate woman, an Avenger, doing the right thing, fighting against evil. You saw the terrible things you did and you wished to changed. That alone makes you worthy of him. You _are_ worthy of happiness and love, Nat, especially from him." He ran his thumb over her knuckles.

She closed her eyes, willing the tears back. It felt uncomfortable, whenever Clint exposed her too human heart. "I'm scared," she whispered, "scared that he'll accept me and it'll be too good to be true. I'll keep expecting the other shoe to drop and he'll just… just end up like the others."

"He's not going to die like Alexie or Kyle, and he's not going to vanish never to be seen again like James."

"You don't know that, Clint! You don't know that."

"No," Clint agreed, "I don't, but I do know he cares about you. I can see it. I've been in love before. I can tell when another guy's in love. And he's definitely in love."

"With a dead dream and a woman that's a liar."

"Nat, you're selling yourself short." He smiled. "You have so much to offer and I think he brings out the best in you."

She gave him a half smile, looking to the side. It made her uncomfortable how well he could read her or tell her the things she needed to hear, but then again… he wasn't codenamed Hawkeye for nothing. "Maybe…"

"At least think about it."

"Alright," she said and stood up, patting his shoulder as she went to the kitchen to see how Steve was doing. It smelled heavenly in the kitchen, with the chicken roasting and the pungent spices. The pressure cooker was whistling away as it cooked the potatoes, Steve was master of the kitchen, mixing and shaking the items on the stove, singing to the new song. "Hey."

He looked up and smiled. "C'mere, I want you to try this," he said and scooped a thick light brown sauce up with a spoon. She walked over, and he slipped the spoon into her mouth. It tasted peppery and like chicken; thick and creamy too. "Good?"

"Is that gravy?"

"Yep," he said and whisked it some more. "Made from the drippings from the chicken. We'll be ready to eat in about fifteen minutes, just need to mash the potatoes. Convection is amazing," he said, nodding to the oven, where the two plump chicken sizzled, their skin a crispy golden brown. "Then we'll open presents after we get the dishes cleaned. You going to Midnight Mass with me or going up with Clint?"

Her eyes widened. She forgot about Midnight Mass, figuring she'll hitch a ride with Clint out of DC and up to his place for Christmas festivities. "I'm… uh, not sure yet, Steve. I'll let you know after presents," she said.

"Alright." He pointed to a cabinet. "Dishes are in there, could you set the table please?" He sang a few lines as he took the potatoes off the stove and ran the hot pressure cooker beneath cold water. She grabbed the plates and silver ware, setting the table. Once done, she went back to Clint who was sticking a present beneath the tree.

"You think of everything?" she asked. He grinned and tossed her a wrapped item, nice and soft. The tag read: _To: Steve, From: Natasha_. "Thanks."

"Already sent your gifts to Tony and Banner out week before last. Laura doesn't mind wrapping stuff for you, you know that." Clint said. "Put it under the tree." He jerked his head to it. She smiled, going over and sticking the lumpy item beneath the tree.

"I was afraid it wouldn't get to your house in time."

"Nah." He shook his head. "It did. It's real nice."

"Do you think it's too much?" she asked, biting her lip. "I didn't know what to get that didn't scream—"

"It's very nice, Nat."

"I was in his room earlier Clint… he misses them so much… it's been a year and he… I didn't notice. I didn't notice how—"

"Didn't notice or didn't want to acknowledge it?" Clint asked. She scowled. The archer shrugged. "I saw my own pain mirrored in you when I first rescued you. Unlike you, Laura pointed it out to me and sometimes you need an outside force to be like: 'hey, look at this.' Because seeing it yourself in someone else, just reminds you of your own pain."

"I'm not heartless, Clint."

He shrugged, a goofy grin on his face, the subject matters juxtaposed with the Christmas music and decorations felt wrong and out of place, but Steve was distracted and he wouldn't hear her talk about this. "Never said you were," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Just that you and him have more in common that you may think you do." He pulled her into a hug. "Give him a chance Nat. It's Christmas."

She sank into Clint's embrace, allowing the comfort he gave so willingly to wash over her for a few moments, before pulling away and looking at him. "Speaking of Christmas… would you be terribly upset if I came to your place a bit later tomorrow? I… I have to stay here for the night."

"Course not, Cooper and Lila may be a pain, but Laura stuff them full of Christmas crêpes they won't notice they haven't open presents until you get there." He winked. She laughed, smiling at the thought of heart-niece and heart-nephew eating crêpes, their faces smeared with whip cream and strawberry syrup.

"Hey, come and eat," Steve said, coming into the living room. "Oh, wow." His eyes widened at the tree. "The tree looks, p-perfect." He choked, rubbing at his eyes. "Just like Christmas back… back with my mam and Buck…"

She pulled away from Clint and wrapped her arms around Steve, hugging him. He nuzzled her neck and she could feel his tears on her skin. "Merry Christmas, Steve."

He took in a shuddering breath, his large hands with their artist fingers, clenching in her shirt. "Thank you," he whispered, "Merry Christmas."

She pulled away, smiling at him and wiped away the last of his tears. "C'mon, let's eat, you don't wanna keep Clint waiting." Both men laughed, and Steve lead them to the small dinner table he had. They sat down to a nice meal of glazed carrots, his mam's stuffing, mashed potatoes and chicken. It was more food than she and Clint could eat, Steve could maybe finish it all on his own but it looked like he may be pushing it. They ate, laughed and drink sparkling apple juice, swapped stories of their work at Shield, though their pasts remained a taboo topic. Clint shared stories about his kids, to which Steve was surprised to learn about and swore he'd keep them a secret. She was surprised he ate an entire chicken by himself. The meal wound down, good food and good cheer putting her at ease. "So what are you going to do with all the left overs?"

"Pack 'em up, eat them at my leisure," he said with a shrug. "Unless you want to take some back home Clint?"

"Sure. I'll never turn down free food."

"Did I tell you we ran into Rumlow at the tree lot?" she said, catching Clint's attention.

"No, you didn't."

"We did. He was being an ass as usual," she said and steeled herself for the next part. "He thought Steve and I were dating and asked Steve why he'd want to date me, implying I was the office slut" — Clint's smile fell into a deep angry frown — "Steve didn't like that sort of talk, so he punched Rumlow and made him apologize. Lifted him six inches off the ground."

"It was more like three… I didn't hit him that hard," Steve mumbled, "was holdin' back."

"If I misplace an arrow in his back would you tell Fury?" Clint asked. She and Steve both laughed.

"Clint," she chided, "it's Christmas, no talking about murder. Even if the victim is Brock Rumlow."

"Damn," Clint said, they laughed some more as they stood up, chairs scrapping against the wood floor and they gathered the dishes. They sang Christmas songs as they put the dishes away, Steve doing the washing (he insisted and said hand washing was faster), while she and Clint tidied up and put things away. She put a pile together for Clint to take home and once they finished, she made hot coco. She didn't have time to make the orange crème like she remembered having it on Christmas when she was a little girl, so long ago, so she put a splash of orange liquor in each cup and brought it out.

"Poor man's Russian hot chocolate," she said handing them their cups and sitting between Steve and Clint. They grinned, thanked her and took a sip. "Good, huh?" she asked, drinking hers.

"There's liquor in this isn't there?" Steve asked. "I can taste the burn, but it's good! It's real good."

"Russian hot chocolate has an orange crème on top, but I didn't have time to make it, so… orange liquor."

"It's good Nat," Clint said. He set his down and got up, grabbing two presents. "Here, open it up."

She swallowed a mouthful of hot chocolate and set her cup down, taking the item Clint handed her. Steve did the same and true to his Depression-era youth, took the wrapping off with meticulous care. "It's a box?" he looked up. Clint gave him an imploring look. He opened the box. "It's an old baseball." He frowned, taking it out of the box. Various signatures were scrawled all over the old baseball. "Freddie Fitzsimons… Tom Drake… Mickey Owen… holy hell" — Steve grinned at Clint, eyes wide — "this is the '41 roster for the Dodgers!"

"Figured you liked that, you don't know what I had to do to get it." Clint grinned, pleased with his gift. "Glad you like it."

"I love it," he said, cradling the ball in his hand. "When… Bucky and I… well, we always hoped to catch a pop fly and get the team to sign it." He rubbed at his eyes. "Thanks, Clint."

"No problem." He nudged her. "Go on, open it."

She huffed, opening the gift and smiling at the pair of pale pink satin of a fresh pair of ballet slippers. "Thanks Clint," she whispered, allowing the thick ribbon to run through her fingers.

"You dance?" Steve asked. She nodded, sucking her lip. "Didn't know you dance."

"Yes, I'm a ballerina," she said, she gave the slippers a bitter smile. "Maybe I'll show you sometimes. I could teach you how to dance if you want."

"Oh, I uh… maybe," he mumbled. He got up and gave them their gifts. Clint got a snow globe of the Fellowship of the Ring. "Do you like it?"

"Next time, ask Nat for gifts for me," he grumbled, looking at it. "But…" he sighed. "Thanks Steve. Guess it was either this or a new quiver."

"Pretty much." He looked at her next. She opened the box, another ornament, another angel. _Keepsake_ stamped on the box and the year on top. She heard him swallow.

"It's beautiful, Steve," she said. "I love it." She took it out, holding it up to the light. "It'll look nice with last year's angel." She watched Steve visibly relax as she tucked the angel back into the box. He sat down, and she got up. She handed Clint his gift, which he ripped into with gusto.

"Oh cool, a dart board," he said, "this'll get boring after fight minutes." He sat it down at his feet. She shrugged.

"Teach Cooper, may be something fun to do with his dad," she said, nudging his shoulder and handed the lumpy package to Steve. "Merry Christmas, Rogers."

"Oh, thanks Natasha," he said, taking the package and opening it. The paper fell away and as it did so, the jacket unfolded. Made of soft subtle leather, with padding inside and a sheepskin collar; on the back in rich embroidery were the words _Howling Commandos_ with his shield in the middle. "Natasha…" he whispered and turned the jacket around, inside were names of the men he served with (Peggy's name included on the left of his name) on the right was: _James "Bucky" Barnes_. He sniffed, setting the jacket on his lap and hugging her. "Thank you," he forced out. "Thank you so much."

"Merry Christmas, Steve," she whispered, hugging him. He pulled away and slipped the jacket on. The fit was perfect and he zipped it up, giving her a watery smile. Clint nodded at her as he gathered up his snow globe and dart board.

"Well, I best be off," he said. "Gotta get home. You who have a lovely Midnight Mass… right?" he asked.

"Yeah," Steve said. "Merry Christmas, Clint."

"Oh, right, Nat, on the table is another thing for you," Clint said, before seeing himself out. Steve looked at the red envelope; she snatched it before he could. The sound of the door closing echoed in the now still apartment.

"Natasha?" Steve asked.

"It's nothing, just something from Clint. I'll read it later," she said, slipping it beneath the ballet slippers. "So? Midnight Mass?"

"Not for another two hours. Wanna watch a movie?"

" _The Nightmare Before Christmas_?" she asked with a a grin. He rolled his eyes but nodded. She laughed and turned the tv on.

* * *

 **Merry Christmas everyone!**

 **This story will be on a brief hiatus as I partake in the Romanogers Secret Santa. Hopefully I'll get the last five chapters up in the new year. Until then.**

 **Have a happy holiday!**


	18. Keepsake III

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

Tony's face was stuttering, the internet having trouble tracking him as he moved about his lab, his words coming out minced and choppy. "Tony, ya need to stay still. I'm having trouble hearing you."

A ragged sigh came through the speaker of his smartphone as Tony stopped moving and looked him. "I'll get you a StarkPhone for Christmas, then we won't have this problem," Tony said. He made a face at that, he didn't need another complicated piece of technology to muddle through. "Anyway, you're invited to the Howard Stark Christmas Gala."

"You named a Christmas Gala after your father?" It surprised him. Tony never talked about his father, and the few times he did it was bitter resentment. He was happy Howard married, but it saddened him that Howard focused so much on his work that he didn't have time for Tony. He wondered if he had never been lost (or maybe if he had been found), that he could have talked Howard into spending more time with his son. He closed his eyes, rubbing them with his thumb and index finger. Such what if questions hurt his head. In the background he could hear the rush of water, the shower running in the bathroom.

"My mom has a fund raiser gala and a spring gala named after her, figured I should give dear old dad one."

"And you just decided it should be Christmas?"

"Thought it had a nice ring to it," Tony said, gesticulating, "the one day a year when family should come first, and like every other day of the year, he was completely absent from the picture."

"Tony—"

"Please, Cap. Just come. Everyone else will be there. Clint, Banner, Pepper — you've met Pepper have you?"

How could he not remember Pepper Potts: smart, pretty, and with a patience's level of a saint (maybe something more divine, an angel?), he had to be dumb, deaf and blind to not notice the way she and Tony looked at each other. It hurt too sometimes, reminding him of the secret stolen glances he and Peggy shared. He sighed, he shared those same glances with Natasha. "Yes, I've met Pepper, Tony. Is… Is… Nat gonna be there?" He glanced at the bathroom door, the shower was still going.

"Tasha? Think so, don't know for sure. Sent her an invite, haven't heard anything. Sent you one too but you're about as flexible with technology as a rock around a bend."

"Thanks, Stark."

Tony ignored his comment, bulldozing ahead. "Black tie, and you get to bring a date." Tony gave him a lopsided grin. "You can bring that mysterious girlfriend of yours."

Steve sighed, rubbing his face, sparing a quick glance at the bathroom door. After Shield fell, he'd follow through on Natasha's suggestion of calling Sharon (formerly known as Kate). He liked Sharon, she was nice and smart and pretty (Tony would say she's a seven out of ten, he still wasn't sure what that meant, and he was afraid to ask); but the glaring kink in their relationship was the fact she was Peggy Carter's niece. When he told Sam how it made him feel… awkward, his friend suggested he either get over it and view this as a second chance to have a romantic relationship (Sharon reminded him of Peggy in a lot of ways) or end things with Sharon.

He had done neither. So, there he was a few days before Christmas stuck in his new Brooklyn apartment (generously paid for by Tony) with a girlfriend he was really only dating because he couldn't bring himself to break up with her (let alone _explain why_ he was breaking up with her) and pining after a woman he hardly knew anything about and hadn't seen since the end of May. It sounded like one of those bad romance novels Sharon liked to read. "She's not mysterious, Tony," he said.

"You have a girlfriend, and you didn't tell me. Me! Your best friend."

"That's stretching the nature of our relationship a bit, Tony." He ran a hand through his hair, it was still damp from his shower; the water was still running and he began to wonder if it was normal for women to take such long showers. "I mean, I'll bring her, she is my girlfriend but—"

"But? Why is there always a but with you?"

"It's complicated Tony."

"I'm all ears. You know, after the Battle of New York, I found out talking really helps heal the soul."

"Was that why you were so chipper during your Christmas party?" he asked.

"Hey, you do not know what I went through earlier that month!" Tony said, his tone a bit sharp though there was a teasing edge to it. He sighed, nodding. "I'll listen."

"And laugh. Look, Tony, I'm fine. I'm dealing with my issues" — by not dealing with them — "Sharon and I—"

"Wait? Her name is Sharon?" Tony asked. "Does she like old fuddy-duddy things? Vintage items? 40s memorabilia?"

He rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Just because her name is Sharon doesn't mean she's like that Tony." The water had stopped running a few minutes ago.

"Look, I'm just saying that Sharon is an old timey name." Tony grinned. "And Sharon is a name that comes from your era so I wondered if—"

A delicate slim finger pressed the end call button. He glanced up to see Sharon grinning at him. "Why do you put up with him? He always makes fun of you." She wrapped her towel around her lithe body, her blonde hair dark and damp against her alabaster skin.

"Eh." He shrugged. "It's how Tony shows affection." He gave her a small lopsided smile. "I don't mind."

Sharon straddled his hips, his hands going to hers. She took the phone from his hand and tossed it into the laundry hamper. "Well, I do. He shouldn't be making fun of you like that." She looped her arms around his neck. "Plus, you need to smile more Steve. It's almost Christmas." She rested her cheek on his head. "I don't like seeing you so sad."

He sighed, resting his forehead against her collarbone, smelling the faint sent of cherries from her body wash and vanilla from her shampoo. Natasha never had heavy scents, always fresh and crisp scents, natural ones. Though sometimes Natasha indulged and had a soft floral scent. He hissed when Sharon rocked her hips. "Sharon…"

"C'mon Steve," she said, doing it again. He groaned, cursed his hypersensitivity thanks to the serum. "You're tense, you're stress. This'll help you relax." She kissed the spot where his ear and cheek met. "Besides, I'm in the mood and we haven't done it since you got back from Europe."

He groaned again, closing his eyes. Ever since finding out that Bucky was alive, brainwashed and twisted into a heartless assassin _but_ alive, he had looked for him in between his missions as an Avenger. He came back last month with Sam from Eastern Europe, the lead turning up nothing on Bucky's whereabouts. "I know," he said, half-heartedly thrusting his hips up when she made another pass. "But—" she cut him off with a kiss, which he accepted out of reflexive habit.

"No talking," she whispered, running her fingers through his still damp hair. "Just relax. I'll make sure you feel good tonight." She dipped her head, kissing his neck and shoulders, her hands trailing light caresses along his bare chest. He held onto her rocking hips, his body responding to her touches, yet his mind was miles away in caught up in memories of Natasha: her lips on his, how she cradled his head when Bucky attacked them on the freeway, how perfectly she fit against him when he shielded them both from the dying Leviathan two years ago. How she tasted of vodka and cinnamon the night of Stark's Christmas party as they kissed beneath the mistletoe. The minty freshness of her chewing gum on the escalator as they blended in to avoided Rumlow's seeking gaze. He gasped, pushing Sharon away when she began to finger the elastic waistband of his boxers. "Steve?"

He picked her up and set her beside him before standing, glaring down at his visibly erect penis. Damn serum. "I'm sorry Sharon," he said, "just not in the mood."

"Tiny Steve begs to differ."

"Don't call my… my… my penis that," he grumbled, a hot blush on his cheeks. He headed to the bathroom. "I'm just not in the mood."

"But Steve," she whined. He shook his head, shoulders tightening as he opened the bathroom door.

"Sorry, Sharon," he said and closed the door. He stripped off his underwear, still glaring at his penis, and twisted the knob to cold and stepped into the freezing stream of water. He jerked, gasping as the cold water hit his skin. It did the trick, his penis wilting. He slumped down, hugging his knees, goosebumps prickling his skin. He pressed his forehead against his knees and wondered where Bucky and Natasha were, and why did he feel so empty and alone.

* * *

The sky was a pale bright blue of winter, Santas from the Salvation Army stood on every corner ringing their bells and ho-ho-hoing to get people to part with spare change. Tourists from every part of the United States and the world mingled with people of New York. New York had changed a lot since he was a kid, but one thing remained the same, 5th Avenue was _the_ shopping district, and with people packed onto the sidewalk like sardines and in cars on the road. He rubbed his gloved hands together, blowing on them, his skin tight and itchy from the biting cold of December. The tall skyscrapers helped a little in blocking out the worst of the artic wind, but it still howled down the streets, biting though his thick wool pea coat. "You aren't gonna turn into a Capsicle on me are ya?" Tony asked as they walked down the sidewalk. He grunted a laugh.

"Nah. Need freezing water to do that," he said and stuck his hands into his arm pits. He could feel Tony's eyes boring into him. "I don't like the cold, okay. Never did. Even before I became a—"

"Capsicle?"

He sighed. "Yeah, even before that." He glanced up at the sky, watching an airplane fly overhead. He remembered the bombers as they flew over Europe, their loud buzzing drone. Each country's plane had a different sound, and he had learned early on to listen for the familiar telltale buzz of the Luftwaffe. Now planes could break the sound barrier and rockets went into space. He was still surprised the US put a man on the moon. Tony had said a lot of modern technology came out of WWII and the Cold War's science race. Zola had been a part of Project: Paperclip, how many other German scientists did the Allies convert? How many others became traitors? He shook his head.

"Steve, c'mon, pay attention."

"Sorry, I was—"

"Caught up in your head, look I know that feeling too, but this Christmas time and you shouldn't be so glum."

He sighed. "I know, but it's…" he stopped. He didn't know if he could feel happy again. All his friends were dead, Peggy was dying, Bucky was missing, he was in an unhappy relationship with Sharon and Natasha was… somewhere. Plus, on top of everything he still felt like he was playing catch up with pop culture and modern-day vernacular. No matter how many movies he watched from the last seventy years there was always something he hadn't seen that was a cult classic that people referenced from. Honestly, he wished Shield had just left him in the ice. It would have been better than trying to muddle through the 21st Century. "Complicated," he lamely said.

"Everything's complicated with you." Tony looked annoyed. "Look, Steve, do me a favor. Relax and enjoy today. Everything is on me. You don't have to spend a dime."

"Tony," he sighed. "I appreciate it but I—"

"Ah-uh!" Tony wagged a finger in his face. "No whining, no complaining, no Depression era frugality. We are gonna splurge and splurge hard." Tony looked at him. "You have what? Three and a half million in back pay?"

He did, most of the money he put into savings, some into the stock market and the rest was in his checking account. With his consultant pay from the Army, the pay he got as an Avenger (Tony once explained it to him that he took it off Stark Industries tax returns, something about a security unit for the company, he wasn't sure how it worked), the pay Shield owed him while working for them for two years, _and_ compensation for injuries he received while on active duty (getting frozen) plus his military retirement pay; he still had more money than he knew what to do with. He wasn't rich as Tony was, but he could still afford nice things. His problem (among many) was habit for him to save every penny in case something happened. Even though he knew that was sometimes a dangerous idea, since he volunteered at a nearby retirement home and some of the residents there told him about how they had nice little nest eggs for a rainy day and then the Depression hit, and the money was next to worthless. Tony nudged him again, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Yeah… yeah, somethin' like that," he said.

"So, spend some! Money is meant to be spent!" Tony clapped him on the back. "Plus its Christmas! Got all your shopping done?"

No, just bought Nat her ornament two weeks ago, haven't bought anything else for anyone. "I'm working on it."

"Look, after you get fitted for you tux, we'll go shopping. I know a nice jewelry store, Sharon would love it. Pretty diamonds, what girl would refuse a diamond necklace." He flashed him a grin. "Maybe even throw in an engagement ring."

He choked, tripping over his feet a bit. Someone glared at them, but Tony glared back. "An en-engagement ring? Tony! Sharon and I have only been dating for seven months!"

"So? People gotten married in less time."

"Yeah, but I'm…" he swallowed. He wasn't ready for marriage. He liked Sharon, but she wasn't the right partner. He was still looking for the right partner. Natasha, Natasha is the right partner, so stop lying to yourself, Rogers. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm… I was thinking maybe I can get Sharon a gift card to Amazon and a nice Christmas card."

"You're… joking right?" Tony arched a brow. "You're seriously joking about the gift card." When he didn't reply, his friend let out a loud long-suffering sigh. "Steve, Sharon is your girlfriend—"

"I know that."

"And I'm telling you, man to man, you don't get your girlfriend a damn Amazon gift card for your first Christmas together!"

"Knowing Sharon, she probably got me some socks," he said. "It's fine, Tony, really. We both agreed to go lowkey this year."

"That's code for I'm gonna get you something super nice," he said. "We're getting your girl a necklace."

"Tony—"

"Nope! A necklace, a nice diamond solitaire," he said. "She'll like it. You can do the fancy hearts and forever moments next Christmas."

"I really don't think Sharon likes jewelry nor do I want to spend that much on her."

"I'm paying for it." He arched a brow. "Seriously, if you're so unhappy in this relationship why are you still dating her?"

"I told you," he said, side stepping a passerby. On a corner, a vendor was shouting about hotdogs. "It's com—"

"Complicated. Yeah, I get that, but it… Steve, you look miserable."

I do? Maybe he was tired more, his nights edging closer to insomnia, but he didn't think he looked miserable. "I'm fine," he said. Tony pulled him to a halt, a few people glared at them, but the crowd bowed around them.

"Look, I said the same thing when I was not fine," Tony said, "and you're not fine."

"Tony—"

"Talk to Banner, Steve," he said, "he's good at listening. I talked to him. He's a doctor." Tony ignored the annoyed looks people gave them as they continued to stand in the middle of the sidewalk.

"I don't think he's that type of doctor, though."

"Or talk to me, I'm —"

"I'm not going to tell you about my problems, Tony!" he said, his voice curt. He rubbed his temples. He didn't sleep last night, maybe catching a few minutes here or there before waking up to the smallest sound or slight movement. Tony looked hurt. He sighed. "I'm sorry, just… haven't been sleeping well."

"Steve—"

"Slept for seventy years, don't need anymore." He grinned. Tony didn't look convinced. He clapped Tony on the back. "I'll be right as rain in a few days." He sighed. "Just got a lot of thoughts rattling around in my head."

"Okay…" Tony didn't sound convince but stopped asking questions as they went into the tuxedo store.

* * *

The store was sleek and sophisticated, satin shining in the florescent light and bright vibrant colored silk. He stood before four mirrors that wrapped around him. The tailor was a short rotund man with a thinning hair line, splotchy cheeks and smelled too strong of some expensive cologne. He poked and prodded him, telling him to lift and lower his arms, move this way and that, asking him how the shirt and jacket fit, how did the pants fit. Reminding him to be honest about each question. So, he told the tailor when the shirt was too tight, how the cummerbund pinched in the back, and the seam of the pants rode up his crotch, and every other detail he could think of until the tuxedo was fitting him like a well-worn glove. Tony, the entire time, was leaning against one of the mirrors, doing something on his phone and ignoring his glances. "Mezzieur Rogers," the tailor said, his accent thick; Steve couldn't place it. "I do believe you are done."

"Oh boy," he said, looking at himself in the mirror. The tuxedo was a navy so dark it could pass for black, but it made his lighter blue eyes pop and lightened his sandy blond hair. Of course, the tailor had covered the tuxedo in pins and white chalk marks for hemming and fitting purposes. It hugged the natural contours of his body, accenting his more prominent muscle groups. He didn't recognize himself. He looked… handsome. Devilishly so. "Tony?" he looked at himself in the mirror. "Whatcha think?"

Tony glanced up from his phone and gave a low whistle. "You clean up nice, Steve. Sharon's gonna swoon once she gets a look at this." He snapped a picture. "What's her number?"

"I'm not giving you my guh—" he swallowed, _girlfriend_ sticking in his throat, "— Sharon's number," he finished lamely as a blushed colored his cheeks.

Tony nodded. "Yeah, good idea, keep it a secret from her. Then she'll appreciate even more." He turned to the tailor. "When will you have it ready?"

"One the twenty-second Mezzieur Stark," the tailor said, "if Mezzieur Rogers has any issues, we will have some time to fix it." He gave Tony a smile. "You are our most valued customer, it will be our top priority."

"See to it that it is," Tony said. "Okay, Steve, change and we'll head Harry Winston."

He choked on his spit as he took the jacket off. "Harry Winston?" He knew that name, and he also knew that was some high-priced jewelry. "Tony, I… I can't go in there!" he said. He fumbled his way out of the tuxedo.

"Why not?" Tony looked flummoxed. "It's just a jewelry store.

"A high-end jewelry store," he said, remembering how as a boy he stared at the socialites with their furs and glittering diamond necklaces and matching earrings. How he met some of them during the USO tour. They all had a haughty air about them, looking down upon him when they found out he was the son of Irish immigrants from Brooklyn. Treating him as if he was some stray mongrel they had to be nice to for brownie points among their social circles. "I'm from Brooklyn!" he said. "A poor kid from Brooklyn… I… I can't go in there." He put on his clothes, stumbling into his pants and pulling his turtleneck over his head.

"Relax, you're with me," he said, slapping his hand between his shoulder blades. "And it's not like it was back in the 40s. Besides, I'll be paying for anything you want."

" _Tony_ ," he said, "why can't we just go to Zales or Kay?"

"And get Sharon tacky garbage? Nope. Won't hear of it. Your girl is gonna have the finest jewels money can buy," he said. "Plus, I need to pick up the thing I got for Pepper." They walked out of the tuxedo store, he pulled on his coat, trotting after Tony. "It's gonna be fine, Steve."

"I just… Tony, I appreciate this, but… I really don't need you to spend money on Sharon like this. Especially because things are—"

"Complicated, I got that," Tony said, giving him a hard look. "Maybe if you'd talk to her about—"

"I can't!" he said. "I can't. It's… she wouldn't understand or take it wrong and Natasha set me up with her, so… I…"

"You don't have to stay with her, Steve, if you don't like her."

"No, I do," he said, buttoning up his coat as he walked. He wove through the crowd, trying to organize his jumbled thoughts. He liked Sharon, liked he a lot, but he didn't _love_ her. Not the way he loved Peggy. "I just… we're just dating."

"Steve, are you dating her because you feel obligated to?" Tony asked. He frowned, not liking how Tony hit the nail on the head. He squirmed inside, trying to avoid answering the question without sounding like he was not answering the question.

"I'm dating her because I'm dating her."

"Did Tasha teach you that trick?" Tony asked, his voice had an edge to it. "Talking in circles to answer questions, or did I?"

"Tony."

Tony grabbed him by the arm, pulling him to a halt. "Look Steve, I see that you're unhappy, I'm sure Sharon sees your unhappy too. I know you do the Golden Generation bullshit of keeping your problems to yourself — my dad did the same thing — but I'm gonna be frank with you because I'm your friend: you don't have to date Sharon if you don't want to and I'm sure Natasha isn't gonna be hurt that you dumped her handpicked girl for you." Tony let him go. "Sometimes people work out better as friends." Tony smiled. "And that's okay."

Steve closed his eyes and set his face in a grim line, shoving his hands into his pockets and marched down the street. Tony saw right through him, hit him right where it hurt. Telling him what he refused to tell himself: that he should end things with Sharon and not drag them out, leading to misery and unhappiness. But he had his pride, and Tony had wounded it. Sometimes, Tony had no tact; sometimes it was what he needed to hear though.

"Steve! Steve, c'mon! I thought you'd appreciate honesty? You're always saying how honesty is the policy or some lame crap like that." Tony chased after him. "Steve!"

He stopped at the corner, a deep sigh shaking his shoulders. The city had decorated for the season, fake boughs of holly strung on the lampposts, shop windows with giant nutcrackers and evergreen boughs with large gaudy plastic ornaments. Christmas lights of every color in every shop and signs prompting the Christmas sales. Seeing such things — especially in his home city — angered him. Christmas was more than just buying the perfect gift or drinking the night away or whatever else people these days thought Christmas was about. Christmas was about family and love, good will towards men, and peace on earth. People gave him a rude look as he stood there, letting his anger simmer down, letting Tony catch up to him. He felt Tony's hand on his back. "Thought I lost ya there," he said, sounding just a tad winded.

He smirked. "Wouldn't dream of leaving you stranded in New York without back up."

"I always have back up," Tony said and shook his arms out in a causal display of loosening up, but he caught the glint of metal on his wrists; Iron Man never far behind. "Now let's go to Harry Winston, and don't give me that look. Nobody is gonna chase you out with a broom."

"Hardy har-har." He rolled his eyes as Tony lead him to the fancy jewelry store.

* * *

It was a luxurious store. Plush beige carpets, dark navy walls trimmed in silver and gold filigree and crystal chandeliers hanging from the pearl white ceiling. He felt sorry and drab standing in the store with the jewelers and consultants dressed in cocktail dresses and sharp suits. Orchestral versions of traditional Christmas carols played, soft and soothing to the sophisticated (snobby) cliental they catered too. A tall slender man walked over to them. "Tony!"

"Jérôme!" Tony hugged the man, they each patted each other on the shoulder when they pulled apart. "You look good."

"Your piece is finished. Beautiful, simply beautiful. She'll love it," Jérôme said, flashing Tony a winning smile. "And who is this?" he asked.

"This is my good friend, Steve Rogers," Tony said, it took a moment, but he watched as Jérôme's eyes grew wide.

" _The_ Steve Rogers?" he asked, he sighed and nodded, thrusting out his hand. Jérôme shook, a wide smile on his face. "Welcome, Captain Rogers, welcome. A friend of Tony's — of course — a friend of ours." He let his hand go. "Don't worry, all our clients are confidential." He gave him another winning smile. "So glad you could come. What brings you in?"

"Earrings for my uh…" he swallowed, clearing his throat, "m-my g-girlfriend." He flushed, wondering why he had trouble referring to Sharon like that. Jérôme furrowed his brow.

"I told him to get a nice necklace with a diamond solitaire, but he won't listen," Tony said, shooting him a glare. Steve sighed.

"We have both, a set even, if you'd like to look," Jérôme said, leading them to a more private booth with two plush chairs. He sat, frowning as the extra soft cushions sucked him into the depths of the chair. Tony sat back, waiting his turn. He struggled upright, putting his hands on his knees, his fingers fisting the fabric of his jeans. Jérôme came back with two cases, one full of pretty earrings: from single gemstone studs to luxurious dangles with many stones. The necklaces Jérôme presented were set up in a similar fashion as well. "Now, depending on your price—"

"He's not concerned about money," Tony said, looking up from his phone, "just put it on my tab."

The jeweler bowed his head. "Of course, sir," he said and gave Steve another smile. "Well then, you have your choices." He waved his open hand over the beautiful pieces of jewelry.

He had to admit all the pieces looked beautiful, but whenever he looked at them he didn't imagine Sharon wearing these, no, he imagined them on Natasha. Silver and white gold to accent her hair, emeralds to bring out her eyes, sapphires to compliment her hair, and diamonds to bring to life that internal sparkle he always saw in her. "Um…"

"Does your girlfriend like wearing jewelry?" Jérôme asked. He puffed out his cheeks, he didn't know if Sharon liked jewelry. They never been on any date that was fancy enough to warrant luxury jewelry. They always kept it lowkey: dinner and a movie, strolls through the park, Netflix and chill nights (he hated those). In fact, he was pretty sure the public didn't know he was dating. Natasha, earlier this year, had pointed him to the Captain America forums, where straight women and gay men discussed everything from how sexually desirable he was to his fantasies and kinks to what he air for breakfast in the morning to if he liked dogs or cats better. He browsed those a few times since Shield fell, but none have picked up on the fact he was dating Sharon. "I um… not sure," he mumbled.

"How long have you two been dating?"

"Er… about seven months," he said. If Jérôme judged him, he didn't say, instead he nodded and took away the more luxurious pieces, leaving the simpler earrings and necklaces.

"These will be between five hundred and one thousand dollars, depending on the size of the stones and precious metal used."  
"Jérôme, I told you not to bother him about the price," Tony said, flicking his gaze up from his phone. The jeweler mumbled an apology.

Steve rubbed his hands together and looked at the pieces again. "Do you have pearls?"

"You're getting Sharon a diamond, Steve, not a pearl. Pearls are for your daughter," Tony said, nudging his calf with his foot.

She could've been my daughter, Tony. If I hadn't been frozen or your father found me, I could've been Sharon's father for all I know. Her uncle at the very least. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll take those," he said, pointing to the small diamond studs. They were pretty and they seemed like the least expensive and he figured Sharon would at least appreciate them. Jérôme nodded and whisked everything away. Once the jeweler had gone, he shot Tony a glare. "Really?"

"What?" Tony seemed confused.

"Pearls are for daughters? I happen to like pearls on women."

"Only two types of women wear pearls: rich little daddy's girls or grandmas. Sharon is neither, ergo diamonds." Tony nudged him with his foot again. "Stop being so up Capsicle. Gonna have to give you a new name that uses stick in the mud."

"I figured you'd be smart enough to realize I didn't want to do this."

"You were going to give Sharon a Christmas card and a gift card to Amazon for a Christmas present."

"I told you we were going to go lowkey this year!" He looked away, he didn't need this. Didn't want this. It was bad enough his relationship with Sharon was complicated, but now Tony was spending way too much money on him. It didn't feel right. He squirmed in his seat.

"And I told you that's girl code for: I'm getting you something ridiculously expensive, so you better realize that and get me something just as fancy too."

He rolled his eyes. "It doesn't mean that, Tony!"

"Trust me, I know. Pepper has told me that all the time and what does she do? Goes and buys me something expensive, so I have to get her something expensive."

"Christmas is more than just who and out do who on spending money on gifts, Tony," he said. Tony arched a brow.

"Never knew that," he said, his words dripping with sarcasm. "I'm just a genius playboy billionaire philanthropist, not like I know anything."

He hunched his shoulders up, feeling bad. "Tony, I'm sorry," he mumbled, "didn't mean to snap, just…" he stopped. Just what? In an unhappy relationship, with a woman he didn't love while pining for a woman he hadn't seen in seven months (and he was pretty sure Natasha hated him or something), stuck out of time with everyone he ever knew dead, dying or turned into a homicidal killer by the enemy. On top of that, he hadn't been sleeping well since he found out Bucky was still alive, his nightmares vivid and of the day Bucky fell to his apparent death. He often dwelled on his short comings, blaming himself for getting frozen, for failing to protect Bucky, for failing to protect Fury (even though Fury faked his own death, but he still failed in a way). Sam had commented that he took more unnecessary risks, asking him once if he just hated it here — in this time — and wished to die. He hadn't given Sam and answer, because he frankly didn't know. He hung his head. "I'm sorry, Tony," he said, "things are just—"

"Complicated. Yeah, I get that, but what I don't get is you not telling me why." Tony shifted in his seat. "Steve, I'm your friend. And I'm worried about you."

Get in line, a lot of people are. "I know." He smiled. "I'll be okay though, I can get by on my own."

"Ah, Mr. Stark, Captain Rogers," Jérôme said as he came back with two black velvet boxes. "Your items."

Tony grunted and pulled out his credit card, handing it to Jérôme. The man smiled and disappeared again. Tony pulled his box towards him, popping it open. The diamonds and sapphires shimmered in the light. "Perfect." He traced the delicate chain of tiny diamonds. It took Steve a moment to realize that the small diamonds had been arranged into the infinity symbol and at each juncture tear drop shaped sapphires hung.

"That's pretty."

"Yeah," Tony said, "it is." He closed it. "Just because people get someone expensive jewelry doesn't mean they don't love that person. When Pepper first started working for me, I got her a pair of diamond earrings for Christmas, because she was a damn good secretary. On the twenty-sixth, she comes in wearing them. Wore them all year. Turned out, she loves jewelry." He smiled. "I design each piece and they make it. Every Christmas she gets a one of a kind piece."

He couldn't help but smile. "You really do love her."

"Yeah, I do."

"I only knew your father when he was single," he said, "glad he got married. I really am."

"My mom was the light of his life. For all his talk about focusing on work, he always made some time for my mom." He sighed. "Wish he made some time for me."

"He loved you," Steve said, finding it hard to believe that the Howard Stark he knew, would completely neglect his son. "He did, Tony, I know he did."

"I guess in his own way," Tony whispered, "but I was too blind to see it until I no longer had it."

Jérôme came back with Tony's card. "Thank you, Mr. Stark, it's always a pleasure seeing you, and you too Captain Rogers, I hope you both come again."

"You too Jérôme," he said and got up, taking the boxes, handing the smaller one to Steve. They left the store, the wintery air sapping the breath from their lungs. Christmas songs blared on the outside speakers of the shops, the streets packed with cars and taxies honking their horns to get the car in front to move. The pale winter blue sky had vanished, replaced with the dull grey of a winter storm, fat lazy snowflakes drifted down, adding to the mounds of snow. As they headed towards Avengers Tower, he noticed it was difficult to walk abreast with Tony, so many people squished into the sidewalk. He managed somehow, he figured it was his large bulk and people just swelled around them. "So, how much did you spend on that necklace?" he asked, bit curious. Tony shrugged, giving a woman a smile as they passed.

"Two hundred thousand, with my customer loyalty discount," he said. "Less than last year. Last year it was five hundred thousand." He stuck the box in his inner coat pocket.

He choked. "Tw-Two hundred thousand?" he asked, unable to fathom spending that much money at one store. He could live comfortable for several months on that alone. "How could… how…" He stopped, allowing distance to build between him and Tony. Tony stopped, staring at him and he shook himself, briskly walking towards his friend.

"It's chump change, Steve," he said, as they resumed their stroll towards the Tower, "you're Depression era sensibilities are showing."

"It's not _chump change_ , Tony! Two hundred thousand dollars!"

"Keep it down" — Tony shot people glances but everyone seemed so caught up in their own lives that they didn't seem to notice nor care — "and did you forget who you're talking to?"

He huffed, shaking his head. "Fine," he said, "let's just… go back, I'll have to get home and wrap this now." He looked at the small velvet box in his hands, wishing he was giving this to Natasha instead. Tony gave a nod and flagged down one of the Stark Town cars the cruised the city.

"Get in Capsicle."

"Would you stop calling me that?" he asked, a bit annoyed. Tony flashed him a grin as he closed the door.

"Not until spring."

* * *

JARVIS was kind enough to play old timey elevator music as they headed towards the main living quarters for the Avengers. The elevator gave a soft electrical hum, a soft ding at each floor. He was looking out the windows, watching the city below get smaller and smaller, the snow thicker the higher they went. Tony was on his phone, doing something. "Never did tell me why it's complicated between you and Sharon."

He closed his eyes, resting his head on the glass. He didn't want to talk about this, not now, not with Tony. He just wanted to get through the next few days and the gala. Then he and Sam were gonna fly to Europe and see if they can't find anything on Bucky's whereabouts. That should take a month, maybe two, and he wouldn't have to deal with Sharon until he got back. "It's fine, Tony."

"If you need help breaking her heart, I can let her down gently." Tony looked up from his phone. "Done it before."

"How?"

"By giving her a chunk of change and having her a sign a non-disclosure agreement."

He scowled, looking away. "That won't be necessary, Tony. Sharon and I are just… having a bit of a rough spot that's all." Rather, _I'm_ having the rough spot, Sharon's just along for the ride. "Maybe next Christmas you can by that engagement ring for me. Have Pepper plan our wedding."

"You can't even call her your girlfriend, how the hell do you plan on calling her your wife."

He hunched his shoulders, shifting his weight (his shoes squeaked against the glass floor) and remained silent for a while. "Because it's the right thing to do."

He could feel Tony' stare on him. They past three floors without Tony saying a word. It was more uncomfortable than Tony pestering him about why his relationship with Sharon was complicated. "It's the… it's the…" Tony sputtered, like a car stuck in snow. "Because it's the right thing to do? Steve," Tony said, "fighting aliens that want to kill us is the right thing to do. Punching a mugger trying to steal a lady's purse is the right thing to do. Helping grannies cross the street is the right thing to do. Donating blood is the right thing to do. But dating a woman when you're unhappy in the relationship is the opposite, it's the _wrong_ thing to do."

He didn't like this. He didn't like it when Bucky called him out at the fair, thinking he had something to prove. He didn't like it when Tony said that he was no better than a glorified lab rat. He didn't like it when Sam told him that he'd be doing everyone a favor by killing Bucky (okay, so he'll admit that Sam didn't say that exactly, but the implication was there, and it still hurt). He knew he wasn't perfect, but he tried to be, he really did; but he didn't need people calling him out on his shit, especially when he knew it was shit. He didn't need people helping him or calling him out on his problems. "Don't you think I know that, Tony?" he growled, tucking his hands further into his armpits, drawing his lips into a tighter frown.

"Actually, I'm wondering if you do at all. Or maybe you're just so damn selfless its selfish. Just love that self-sacrificing hurt, don't ya?"

He glared at his friend. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Actually, I do. I think you're scared. I think you're scared of telling Sharon the truth, because she'll leave you — which would be a good thing considering how miserable you been for the last couple of months — and on top of that, you're afraid to tell whomever you _do love_ how you feel because you have no idea how to talk to women and are afraid of rejection."

It was true, and it hurt. He hated how Tony saw right through him, how Tony dragged out the icky black thing that had coiled around his heart and exposed it to the light. He hated how Tony was just being a good friend and looking out for him. He glared, swallowing.

The elevator dinged, the doors rumbled open and there was Natasha, looking through some papers. She looked up, surprised to see them. "Steve, Tony… hi." She gave them a fleeting smile.

"N-Natasha!" he swallowed, the lump in his throat, hoping to keep his blush down and hoping Tony didn't notice anything. "H-Hi." He and Tony stepped out, and he watched Natasha step into the elevator. "You uh…" he cleared his throat. "You look… you look good. Haven't uh… seen you in a while."

"Yeah." The corner of her mouth tugged up into a half smile that sent his heart fluttering. "You look good too, Steve. How're things?"

"Good. Good. Sharon and I are doing great." He grinned, hoping she didn't notice how forced it was. "Thanks for setting us up."

She bowed her head with her hair hiding her face for a heartbeat or two before looking at him again. "No problem. Glad I could help you find someone special."

"Yeah, me too. Sharon's… Sharon's great." He shoved his hands into his pockets. He stared at her, watching her play with the corner of a piece of paper. The doors began to close. "Bye Nat."

"Later Rogers." She waved at him as the doors closed. He let out a big long sigh, feeling as if all the light and happiness in the world had been sucked away. He looked at his feet.

"Maybe I was too quick to turn down the gift card idea," Tony mumbled. He shot Tony another glare, heading towards the spacious kitchen area. "But you and Tasha. Oh, boy! I never saw that coming. I thought you had a crush on the café girl or something."

"Tony, please stop." He sat down at the counter, putting his head into his hands. He felt awful, like he wanted to throw up. He wanted to go into his room and curl into a ball and forget about the world. Tony being Tony ignored him and came over to him. "Tony."

"So how long have you been pining after our lovely Black Widow?" he nudged him. He scowled at the inventor. "Because when she was working for me… or rather spying on me for Shield, Pepper told me she was a very expensive sexual harassment law suit waiting to happen."

He stared, aghast at Tony. "How could you… are you saying—"

"Yup." Tony nodded with a grin. "So look at it this way. She's clearly the one you want, but you're stuck with Sharon. Why don't you dump Sharon, and get it on with Tasha?"

He felt like throwing up again. He hadn't felt sick since the serum yet now he felt weak and achy. The brilliant shiny chrome of the kitchen, the impeccable neatness of this place, all contrasted with how awful he felt. "I can't Tony, I told you that." He hung his head. "Besides, did you see how Natasha looked at me? She couldn't wait to get away from me. She doesn't feel the same way about me."

There was silence for a heartbeat too long. "I'm sorry," Tony said, "but who has the serum and who doesn't? Aren't you supposed to see further, hear better, run faster than the rest of us?"

"Tony—"

"And you _think_ Natasha doesn't like you? Because, what I saw were two people too caught up in being selfless to realize that they like each other. Two people afraid of their own feelings."

"Even if that was true, Tony… I can't… I just… it's… Sharon—"

"It's complicated. I got it, but why?"

"Because—"

"No, you do not use that lame bullshit answer with me. My dad used it on me when I was a kid, it got old real fast. So, tell me, Cap, why is things between you and Sharon so complicated that you can't even break up with her?"

He looked at Tony, realizing that he could no longer avoid the truth. He sighed, leaning back in the chair, wincing at the groan it made from his weight. "Sharon Carter. Her name is Sharon Carter and she's Peggy's grandniece." He shook his head. "I didn't know it at first. For the first three months, I did really like her. She was smart, funny, and we always had a good time together. Then one day, before I moved back to Brooklyn, I went to see Peggy to tell her I was heading back to New York." He ran a hand through his hair. "Ran into Sharon at the nursing home. We talked for a bit and went on our way. I got to Peggy's room and she called me Sharon." He closed his eyes, remembering how he had to convince Peggy first that he wasn't Sharon and then that he was alive and that she still owed him a dance. "I asked Sharon about it when I got home… she told me. Ever since it's been… off between us." He folded his hands together.

The silence stretched between them. The gentle hum of technology filled the uncomfortable void. He heard the elevator hum pass the floor, the doors remaining shut. "Jeez," Tony muttered. "That's…. That's—"

"Icky?" He gave Tony a small smile. "I know." He looked around the space, large and open, with big bay windows with a beautiful view of Manhattan. It would be hell heating the place in winter, but thanks to the arch reactor, energy coast was a thing of the past. There was enough energy output from the reactor to completely offset the amount of heat lost from the big bay windows. He watched the snow, wondering if Howard ever envisioned this future.

Tony snorted. "I was going to say creepy but icky works too." He tapped the counter. "JARVIS, drinks."

"Any preference, sir?" the AI asked.

"Bourbon on the rocks."

"Right away sir." There was the whirling sound of unseen machinery, and two glasses rose up out of the stainless-steel countertop, filled with bourbon with cubes of ice within. He arched a brow as Tony handed him a glass and took the other for himself.

"You know I can only get drunk if I drink Asgardian mead, right?" he cradled the glass in his hands.

"This calls for a drink, Steve," Tony replied, and took a sip of his. He sighed, staring at the amber liquid before sipping at it. It burned down his throat, while the mellow aftertaste coated his tongue.

"I could see a lot of Peggy in her now. I was… if I had survived… if you father had found me… I could've been her uncle Tony. I could have been her father." He shook his head and stared at the ceiling, concentrating on the cool dew of the glass in his hands. "If things had just been a bit different… she could've been my daughter or my niece."

"And you don't want to hurt her feelings by breaking up with her?" Tony arched a brow. "Because, honestly Steve, this is grounds for a never gonna get back together again break up." He took a sip of his drink.

He snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half smile. "That and I don't want to explain _why_ I'm breaking up with her." He took another swallow of his drink. "I don't know how people think going to a bar and drinking is fun."

"It's not about drinking, Cap," Tony explained, "is about hanging out with friends for a few hours. The booze is just a bonus, something to do."

"You can hang out with friends without going to bars," he said, taking another sip of his bourbon. "I mean, even before the serum I never was a big drinker."

Tony's eyebrows shot into his hairline. "But you're Irish," he said. He barked a laugh, shaking his head at that. It felt good to laugh at something though, anything to avoiding thinking about what he had to do when he got home, the conversation he was dreading. "Don't the Irish love to drink and party?"

He grinned, shaking his head. "I was a five-foot-four skinny guy. I was the definition of lightweight. Get two glasses" — he held up the glass — "of anything in me and I was done for the evening." He gave a wistful smile, remembering how he and Bucky tried to bar crawl a few times, but their evenings always ended earlier than planned because he'd get sick as a dog after a few glasses, even if he ate something. "I tried though, back in the day, I tried. Just couldn't handle it." He shrugged. "Guess it was for the best."

"Any fun stories?" Tony asked, curiosity in his tone. "Dad never told me any drinking stories about you. Plenty of others but never those."

"Nah, during the war I didn't drink much. Neither did your dad. We were often in his lab, trying out new equipment." He puffed out his cheeks as he sighed. "I was nineteen… I think, yeah. It was '37, year after my mam died. Bucky" — he swallowed down the lump in his throat — "Bucky decided that we were gonna go to Ben Callister's place. He knew a moonshiner. Gotta be careful with moonshine, that stuff can be real good or make ya real sick." He smiled. "So we went, outside the city cause it's been only four years since the Prohibition Repeal. Anyway" — he swallowed the rest of the bourbon — "we went, drank some moonshine and well, I got sick. Threw up all over Bucky. We left after that. He took me home and cleaned me up and tucked me in. Stayed the night and played nursemaid as I nursed a hangover."

"Damn," Tony said, staring at him. "You really were a lightweight." He finished his own drink.

"Yeah, now I can drink all I want," he said. "I better get going." He set the empty glass down and stood up. "Thanks for everything Tony." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "I appreciate it."

Tony grinned. "What are friends for" — he pointed at Steve — "And remember, you don't have to explain why."

He frowned. "I'm not rude. My mam raised me better than that." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I just… I know, but it doesn't feel right not telling her why I'm ending things."

"Hey, it's your choice. Do what makes you happy."

That's the thing, Tony, I don't know what makes me happy anymore. "Will do. And in the meantime," he said, "your dad promised flying cars, I'm still waiting."

Tony laughed. "Keep waiting. Stark Revision technology is a dead end."

He grinned, shaking his head. "Bye Tony," he said and went to the elevator, hitting the button for down.

* * *

The Christmas decorations did nothing to hide the melancholic gloom that hung in his apartment. The tree twinkled with white lights, the star shimmering on top; Christmas lights hung around the windows, and the Christmas village he picked out with Natasha had been set up on the mantle, fake snow beneath it. It still felt forced — fake, the way she said his apartment in DC felt like. Sam had helped him buy furniture in New York, find things that fit more his personality, but it still didn't feel lived in. It felt like a place he came to sleep and avoid during his waking moments. His suite in Avengers Tower had more character to it — and Tony had decorated it for him!

He flopped down on the couch with a sigh, running his hand through his hair. He pulled out the small velvet box, staring at the earrings. He should save them and give them to Natasha, give Sharon the Amazon gift card like he planned and break up with her. He nodded. Mind made up, he closed the box and stood. He heard keys rattling in the lock and the door open. Sharon walked in, shaking snow from her coat and scarf. "Steve." She gave him a warm smile.

"Sharon." He took a deep breath and flashed her a disarming smile. "We need to talk," he said. Silence hung between them; she didn't say anything but continued to take off her coat and boots. She walked passed him and sat on the couch, patting the space besides her.

"Sit, Steve," she said. He sighed and sat. He swallowed, trying to not show his nervousness. She turned the tv on, turning it to a music station and put the volume on low. He furrowed his brow at the Christmas music, at her excited smile and the glitter of happiness in her blue eyes. Weren't most women afraid of the dreaded _we need to talk_ statement? Peggy and Howard both said he had no idea how to deal with women. "I know this is a bit early, but I figured an early Christmas present would cheer you up since you've been so glum lately."

"Sharon, you didn't—" he was cut off when she pressed a finger to his lips.

"Shhh, I wanted to do this Steve." She grinned and pulled from her purse a black velvet box topped with a glittering golden bow. "Merry Christmas, Steve."

Swallowing his nerves, he took the box from her and opened it. Inside was a watch, platinum with a navy face and silver hands and numbers, a bit of gold running in the middle. He turned it over and saw the brand Rolex stamped on the back. "Sharon, I… I can't accept this."

"Sure, you can," she said, "I had enough money from Shield." She took the watch from him, opening the band and slipping it onto his wrist. He heard the clasp click, the fit perfect and the watch a comfortable heaviness. She held his hand in both of her smaller ones. "I love you, Steve, and I wanted to get you something nice to show you that love." She kissed his cheek. "I know things have been weird between us since we ran into each other at Aunt Peggy's nursing home, but I hope we can move pass that. I'm not my aunt and I don't want to replace her, and I don't want you to see me as her."

"Sharon—"

"I'm my own person" — she smiled — "It's just a quixotic twist of fate we both ended up loving the same man."

He swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing the burn of tears down from his eyes. "It's a beautiful watch," he said. "Thank you." He licked his lips. "Sharon, I" — want to break up? See other people. Can't do this anymore? Do you know how close I came too being your uncle, maybe even your father? — "I love you too." He forced a smile to his face and pulled out the black box he had. "Got you something nice as well."

Her eyes widen as he placed the box in her hands. "Steve…" she whispered and snapped it open. She let out a breath, not sure if she was happy by what she saw or disappointed. "I love them," she said, "they're beautiful."

"I want to ask you something," he said, taking her hands in his. "Would you be my date to the Howard Stark Christmas Gala?" he swallowed, hoping his didn't gave away anything. Please say no, please say no, please say no, because then I can ask Natasha to be my date.

"Yes, of course I'll be you date Steve," Sharon said, setting the earrings aside. He swallowed his disappointment, masking it with surprise. "When is it?"

"Christmas Eve." He smiled. "I already got a tux, so you'll need a dress."

"Hmm, well, I'm sure I can find something by then." She kissed him. "I'll wear the earrings. Where did you get them again?"

"Uh… Harry Winston." She gave a low whistle. "Tony took me."

"Pricey," she said, grinning and gave him another kiss. "I love them. Thank you again, Steve."

"Well anything for my bes—" he swallowed. "Anything for my beautiful girlfriend." Feeling like such a lair when she grinned at him as she stood up to put her earrings into her jewelry box. He put his head in his hands and sighed, wondering how he got himself into this mess and how he'd get himself out of it.

* * *

The last time he went to a fancy shindig was the Presidential Christmas party. The Howard Stark Christmas gala made the Presidential Christmas party seem trivial. A titanic Christmas tree with ribbon and tinsel, giant plastic ornaments, hundreds of lights and a glittering star on top stood in the center of the ballroom. A grand staircase lead to the ballroom. Boughs of holly with lights and bows hung at the top of the walls and between the French windows stood giant nutcrackers. A live orchestra sat in one corner, playing soft music that transported the listener back to Victorian era Christmases. And hanging from the ceiling was a luxurious crystal chandelier, that helped illuminated the polished white marble dance floor. He felt overwhelmed by it all. The luxury and the sophistication, so far removed from his humble roots. The Rolex was heavy on his wrist and his perfectly fitted tuxedo felt awkward and uncomfortable as his gelled back hair.

He glanced at Sharon. She wore an off-shoulder mermaid dress that hugged her curves. It was a lovely rich red with gold sequins along the hem. The diamonds sparkling in her ears and a diamond necklace around her throat. With her hair pulled up in a bun, a few locks curled and framing her face; she looked pretty, dolled up like this. He figured he should be proud with such a beautiful woman on his arm, attending such a lavish function as this. He had come so far from the poor skinny kid from Brooklyn, but he didn't feel that. Instead he felt like the skinny kid from Brooklyn, out of place and aware that he didn't belong among such extravagance. Sharon smiled at him. "Ready?" she asked.

No. "As I'll ever," he said, and they descended the grand staircase; Tony greeted them at the bottom and thanked them for coming. Pepper was at his side, her hair curled and loose, wearing an emerald green backless dress, the necklace Tony had gotten for her glittering on her neck. He smiled at them both and thanked them for inviting them. Next came Clint and his date. Steve looked up at the woman on Clint's arm, and felt an instant kinship with her. Humble folk amongst so much luxury. She wore a princess v-line chiffon lace floor length dress of a soft lilac color, floral like patterns on the bodice and the sleeves. Tony and Pepper greeted them.

"Steve," Clint said, smiling once he pried himself and his date away from a very confused Pepper and Tony. "Meet my wife, Laura."

"You're… you're wife?" Steve asked, surprised. He shook the woman's hand, happy to feel she had a good grip. "Hello, ma'am, pleasure to meet you."

"Well you _are_ old fashion," Laura said with a laugh. "Nice to meet you Steve." She smiled at Clint. "Seems Clint didn't tell you or Tony for that matter, about me. Figures."

"Don't want weirdos bustin' down the door," Clint grumbled, looking strange in a tux. "Especially after what happened earlier this year."

"Yeah," Steve agreed. "It's best I didn't know, Mrs. Barton."

"Laura, please," she said, "I'm not old enough for that yet." She smiled at Sharon. "And you must be Steve's—"

"Girlfriend," Sharon said. "Sharon. I uh… worked with your husband a few times." She smiled at Clint, who gave her a nod, his expression unreadable. Steve swallowed, wondering why Clint was so cool towards Sharon.

"Girlfriend? Oh wow, I thought you were his sister!"

He paled at that. Thanks Laura, now I have _another reasons_ to feel awkward in this relationship. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Fake it 'til ya feel it, Steve. You can do it. Just like the USO tours. "No, no, she's my girlfriend, lovely girlfriend," he said, smiling at Sharon, hoping warm affection was in his gaze. Sharon smiled back, but her smile didn't reach her eyes.

"C'mon Laura, you're embarrassing him, there's some food over there, looks like Tony got shrimp cocktails," Clint said, and tugged his wife over to the food. Laura waved bye to them. He puffed out his cheeks in a sigh as he watched them go.

"Do I really look like your sister?" Sharon asked, frowning. He stared at her, trying to find an answer. She looked more like Peggy to him than someone that could pass as his sister. Tony and Pepper were greeting the newest guests.

"Not really, your eyes are brown, mine are blue." He shrugged. "Must be the hair, we're both blond." He forced a chuckle, wondering if he needed to stand here or should he go and mingle with all the rich and important people. He tried looking for Sam but didn't see his friend. Sharon nudged him.

"Look," she said, nodding to the woman on Bruce Banner's arm, "she's pretty."

He stared, gob-smacked. Wearing a midnight blue strapless dress with a sparkly semi-transparent train that made it look like the dress had wings, was Natasha. Diamonds hung from her ears and around her throat, her red hair tied in a high bun and secured with a diamond clasp. White silk gloves that ended mid bicep adorn her arms; her expression was haughty, her make up done just so to make her green eyes pop.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," he whispered, staking a few steps towards where Natasha and Bruce stood by Tony and Pepper. He didn't realize he had let go of Sharon's hand until she gave his fingers a tug. Sharon gave him a look, he frowned and went back to her side. He watched Natasha give Tony her tight lip smile, inclining her head and then thread her arm through Bruce's. His heart sank, realizing he waited too long once again. First Peggy, now Natasha? King of waiting too long, huh? He smiled though, when they came over to them. "Natasha, you look… lovely feels inadequate." He felt nervous yet comfortable with Natasha's gaze on him. He remembered Peggy in her stunning red dress that night in the bar in London; this moment felt the same.

"Yeah, Romanoff," Sharon said, "you look beautiful."

Natasha smiled. "Thank you," she said, "you look lovely too Carter." The music swelled around them, and he didn't know what to say. Instead he watched the remaining guests come down the staircase, noting how they mingled about on the edge of the dance floor. Politicians clumping together, important military personal in another, businessmen and local politicians and celebrities in another group. The who's who all here, chittering and chattering about the latest gossip, policy or business venture. If he squinted, he could see the ghostly figures of the paparazzi trying to take pictures through the windows.

"So how long have you and Banner been together?" Sharon asked, drawing his attention back to Natasha and Bruce.

"Yeah," he said, feeling the need to say something because etiquette demanded it. "You both deserve a win."

Bruce looked uncomfortable and Natasha's gaze turned frigid. "Not long," she said, her voice cool, "we're more friends." Her eyes slid to glance at Bruce. "Two friends not wanting to go to this alone."

"I see," Sharon said, smiling as a tuxedo clad waiter came by, a silver platter with flutes of champagne on it. She took two, handing one to him. His lips twitched into a smile as he took it from her. Bruce and Natasha also took some champagne.

"It's good to see you again, Steve," she said, sipping at her drink, "you look good, better than when we ran into each other at Avengers Tower."

"Oh uh… thanks," he said and took a long swallow of his champagne. He lowered the flute when he felt everyone stare at him, half of his champagne gone. "What?"

"Don't guzzle your champagne, Steve," Sharon hissed, "you sip it." She demonstrated, ignoring Natasha rolling her eyes. "Don't act—"

He flushed. "Like a country bumpkin?" He gave a lopsided grin and a nervous chuckle, trying to ease the tension. Sharon frowned, shifting awkwardly beneath Natasha's scowl.

"I was going to say impolite," she muttered, scowling back at Natasha. He glanced at Bruce who gave him a shrug, just as confused by the women's hostility towards each other as he was. "It's okay Steve, just remember next time."

"Yeah, sure."

"Ladies and gentlemen," JARVIS said, his robotic voice echoing through the spacious ballroom; Tony, with Pepper on his arm, walked through the crowds to the center of the dance floor. "Mr. Tony Stark and Ms. Pepper Potts would like to welcome you all to the first annual Howard Stark Christmas gala." Everyone clapped politely. "The dance floor is now open, dinner will be served at seven-thirty." The band struck up a cherry minute. Tony took Pepper in his arms and they began to dance; the lights dimmed, and a spotlight focused on them as they twirled and wove along invisible paths only they knew upon the marble floor. After a minute or so, the lights brightened, and more couples joined them. Bruce and Natasha went to the dance floor. He watched her, longing in his gaze.

"Steve?" Sharon asked, looking at him. He swallowed, squeezing her fingers. "You okay?"

"Just uh… Just don't know how to dance," he said, flushing as he stared at glossy dress shows on his feet. "Never got… never did make that date with your aunt." He swallowed. "So, she uh… never taught me. I don't wanna step on your feet."

"It's okay," she said, taking his champagne flute and setting it down next to hers. She smiled at him. "I'll show you how. I'm sure you're not that bad." She kissed his cheek and took his hands. He swallowed as she positioned his hands on her body and began to lead him. They struggled for control for a bit, but he gave in an allowed her to have full control. He was a quick study though and soon he was dancing as if he had danced every day of his life. He noticed Natasha watching him and gave her a dopey grin.

"Ow," he muttered when Sharon stepped on his foot. He looked at her as they twirled around.

"Sorry," she said, "missed a step."

"S'okay," he said, as the music ended. He dipped down and gave her a sweet chaste kissed. "You're beautiful." Smiling when she smiled back at him. He traced her cheek with the pad of his finger.

"Partner change," JARVIS said. Steve blinked in confusion and people swarmed around, swapping partners. Tony got Laura, Clint got the celebrity Crimson Johnson, Bruce got Pepper. A handsome man around his age (biological age that is), came and whisked Sharon away. Turned out it was the celebrity star Topher Evens. Natasha came up to him, smirking. He swallowed.

"Looks like you need a partner," she said, taking his hands, putting on her hip and holding the other. "Hate for you to have to sit this one out."

"Nat, I… uh…" he fumbled for words. She shook her head as the music struck up again. "I… I want to—"

"Relax Steve," she said, leading them. "Relax and let your body do the talking. Just listen to the music."

He nodded, doing as she said. The music swelled around them, the delicate sighs of the flutes and hums of the violas and violins. The boldness of the trumpets and French horns and the steady rumble of the cellos and bassoons. It wrapped around him, along with the delicate scent of Natasha's perfume: rose and jasmine with just a hint of lilac. He tucked her closer to her body closer to his, pleased to feel how well she fit against him — like the missing piece of a puzzle. He smiled down at her, getting lose in the brilliance of her green eyes. He didn't know when he began to lead her, but he did, weaving through the crowd.

The music ended, and they stopped. "Oh." He looked up when she said that, noting the mistletoe that hung over their heads. "Mistletoe again," she said, a little smile gracing her lips. He sighed and cupped her face in his hands. "Steve?" He answered her with a kiss. She hesitated for a moment before giving in. She moaned, opening her mouth when his tongue graced her lips. She told him to let his body do the talking, so he put every ounce of love in the kiss, hoping she'll understand.

He pulled away when the need to breath became too much. He watched her, trying to get his thoughts into order; his hands slipped down to her biceps, thumbs caressing her skin. "I love you, Natasha." He let out a quick breath. "I've been in love with you for so long now and I should've told you that day… at the graveyard." He shook his head. "But I let you walk away like a damn fool." He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. "I love you, I love you so much." He smiled at her, feeling a sense of peace wash over him.

"Steve?" a sad voice said from behind him. He closed his eyes and steeled himself. Sharon was staring at him, with a heartbroken look on her face. "Are you… I thought—"

"I'm sorry," he said, turning to face her, but holding onto Natasha's hand. "I'm sorry, but I can't keep doing this anymore. I don't love you. I could've been your uncle or even your father. And… I loved your aunt. I know you two are different people, but it's different for me. I still think of your aunt as a young woman, not the elderly one in the nursing home."

"Steve, don't do this," Natasha said, trying to pull her hand free from his. "Sharon's nice, she deserves a chance, she'll make you happy. I won't. I'm… I'm not good enough for you, I'm broken."

He clenched his jaw. "I don't care," he said, "everyone seems me an sees this… out of place man, lost in time. Even before the serum, everyone underestimated me, refused to hear what I wanted." He shot looks at both women. "I know what I want, and I want you Natasha. You are good enough for me. You always have been. I don't care if you're broken, because I'm a bit broken too."

"Steve, don't talk like this," she said.

"Steve, why didn't you talk to me? I would've listened, we could've worked something out," Sharon said. He shook his head, knowing that his relationship with Sharon had been doomed from the start. He never loved her, he understood that now. And how could he live with himself, trapping her in a loveless relationship. "Steve?"

"No." He shook his head. "No, Sharon, nothing would've worked. I never loved you." He looked at Natasha. "I was already in love with someone else."

"Don't do something you'll regret."

"I've already done everything I'll regret." He held her hand, noting that Clint and Tony had come over. "And if I let you go now, I'll regret it for the rest of my life."

"Nat, stop lying to yourself," Clint said, "you've been miserable since you got back from Russia. A few days ago, when you ran into him, was the happiest I've seen you in a long time." Clint ignored her glare.

"Steve, please I—" Natasha began but he shook her head.

"No, no. Stop it, Natasha. I love you, all of you. I accept your past, I'll face any trial or tribulation with you, at my side. You aren't broken, you are good enough for me. You are a beautiful, kind, warm hearted woman" — he stroked her cheek — "so strong and fierce." He kissed her again and pulled away after a heartbeat or two. He unclasped the watch and handed it to Sharon. "I'm sorry Sharon. I'm sorry I had to ruin your Christmas like this, I really am."

"Steve, you're making a mistake," Natasha said as he placed the heavy Rolex into Sharon's hand. "Don't do this. This isn't right."

"No," he said, "staying with Sharon isn't right. I… I don't understand why you can't see it, can't accept that I love you." He sighed, feeling caged in. "I need some air." He shouldered his way through his friends and the crowd, finally making it the edge of the room. "JARVIS?"

"The back exit is to your left," the AI said.

"Thanks," he said, and snuck out of the gala, nursing a bruised ego and a broken heart. He glanced back at the building, noting the swarming paparazzi, their cameras flashing and voices shouting. He shivered in the cold, his tuxedo jacket worthless against the wintery chill. He bowed his head and began to walk away.

* * *

He ended up in a church, head bow and listening to the grandfatherly priest speak of God's love and forgiveness. There was a sacred festiveness to the church, it was something common among Houses of God during Christmastime. He stuck out like a sore thumb though, dressed in his tuxedo. Nobody said anything, but he heard them whisper about it amongst themselves. He didn't care though. He knew that he had blown his last chance with Natasha. "At least I told her how I felt," he whispered, staring at his clasped hands. "Why Lord? First you take my father before I was born, then you take my mother when I was eighteen and my best friend… who I thought I lost, you give back to me, but he's twisted and cruel, with no memory of himself. I found a girl and then you take her from me in this twist of fate. I finally find someone else, and… she rejects me." He sniffed. "I thought you were just and merciful, but why must I suffer like this? What more must I do? How much more must I sacrifice before I find some peace?" He stared at the polished wood crucifix at the other end of the church. Christ nailed to the cross with his crown of thorns, the wound in his side and blood seeping from his hands and feet, a look of pain etched into his face. "Your son died for our sins, and I tried to live my life according to how you would wish… but… I don't know how much more I can give you before I break. Please… show me a sign… anything. I can't lose any more people I care about."

He wiped his eyes, listening to the choir lead the congregate in Christmas songs. He wondered if God heard him or if God ignored him like He had done every other time he prayed. It was Christmas Eve, so maybe God had heard, at least he hoped. "Steve?"

He turned, eyes widening at the sight of Natasha, wrapped up in a fur coat. "Natasha."

"Hey," she gave him a small smile. "May I join you?" she asked, looking at the almost empty pew. He nodded, scooting over and she sat down next to him. "Sharon wanted me to give you these" — she opened her gloved hand to reveal the diamond earrings — "she told me to tell you, that you need to give these to your girlfriend." She gave him that smirk he loved so much, she tipped them into his hand.

"Don't know who that'll be though," he sighed and stuffed the earrings into his breast pocket. "Thanks."

"Tony told me, well he and Sharon told me how you've been… unhappy for a while." He grunted. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said, keeping his gaze fixed ahead. "I understand." His hand fell over hers and he smiled when she squeezed his fingers. "It's hard sometimes, keeping faith."

"Yeah," she agreed, "it is." She rested her head on his shoulder. He let her hand go, snaking his arm around her waist and pulling her close. "But what else do we have when everything else is gone but faith?"

"Love." He nodded. "We have love and faith." He looked at her, seeing the same emotions — love and desire, hope and faith — reflected in her eyes. "We have those at least, when all else fails."

"Are they enough though?" she swallowed, the corners of her mouth tugging up into a small smile. "They don't seem like enough."

"They'll have to be, because what else do we have when we have nothing?" he asked. She smiled as she nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. He dipped his head and leaned forward to kiss her, she met him the rest of the way and he sank into it. They broke apart when they needed air. He rested his forehead against hers. "You know, we can go back to my place," he said, "watch a movie, open presents?"

"Your apartment or your tower suite?"

"Tower suite, it feels more like home, we can get my apartment feeling like that once Sharon moves out." She chuckled. "Deal?"

"Yeah," she said, "deal." She nuzzled his cheek and he stole another kiss.

* * *

 **Happy New Year everyone! I don't know why I got this chapter done so quickly, but I did. Hope you enjoy it. I'll see you in 2019 as I finish up the last four chapters of this. Keep an eye out for my secret Santa fic. ^o^**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	19. Keepsake IV

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

Natasha giggled as Steve held onto her out stretched hands; she glanced over her shoulder, making sure she didn't run into any one as she steered him towards a less crowded section of ice so he could get his skates under him. "I haven't done this in years and you expect me to teach you how to skate?" she asked. It was a nice clear wintery day in early December. The sky was blue, the sun a tad warm (but still requiring a coat and gloves), and there was this feeling in the air; a feeling she couldn't quite put her finger on but made her hopeful and optimistic about the future. For once, there was no mission the Avengers needed to be on, so Steve suggested they have some fun around New York. Which lead to them ice skating at the Rockefeller Center or rather, her teaching Steve how to skate.

"Never… never got a chance to ice skate before. Always wanted to, though," he said, his legs wobbly as he took baby slides. She smiled at him, enjoying the determine look of concentration of his face. "Besides you're Russian." He flashed her a boyish smirk.

She tossed her head back and laugh. "Doesn't mean anything, I know a few Russians that can't skate." She tugged him along, picking up a bit of speed. "Speed helps with the balance." She smiled as she glided backwards in a circle. He nodded, trying to match her speed but there was a hesitation about it, something she never saw in his movements before. "Steve, relax. You're not gonna fall."

"No, no it's not that—" he stopped licking his lips. She cocked her head, waiting for him to continue, but he didn't. Instead the Christmas music the rink was playing mingled with the chatter and laughter of the other skaters filled the void. She waited, losing herself in the sound of the skates scraping against the ice as they went around in wide lazy circles. He looked handsome in his tawny wool coat, the top of his grey mock cashmere turtleneck peeking out and his dark wash blue jeans bringing out his eyes. He had a black-white-and-red beanie that said _I Heart New York_ on, the poofy pompom bobbing with every nod of his head. He bought it as a tourist stop much to her chagrin, but he had laughed and handed over the ten dollars for the hat. His cheeks and nose were red with cold and his lips looked a bit chapped. She smoothed her thumbs over his gloved knuckles, revealing in the feel of the supple leather.

"Steve?" she asked, when the silence between them got too much. He looked up at her, and she noted trepidation in his blue eyes. "What's wrong?" She bit her lip, hoping he wasn't having a panic attack. "Do you need to sit down? We can. It's no big deal."

"No, no I" — he swallowed and bowed his head — "do you know what's under the ice?" he whispered. She blinked, blood leaving her face.

"Der'mo." She shook her head, kicking herself for forgetting that this could have caused him to have a panic attack. His mental health — he still refused to see a psychiatrist — had vastly improved since she met him. Since they started dating he's been sleeping better with less nightmares, he smiled more and seemed happier and more upbeat, talked more freely about his past — about the people he lost. He had his bad days (everyone does), but they were few and far between. Not like last year, when he seemed constantly miserable or the two previous years when he seemed lost and distant. When she asked about it, he had attributed it to her and her grounding presents. He told her she made him feel at home. Then he kissed her, their first kiss as a couple.

She had almost bolted, afraid of someone loving her in such an intimate fashion, of being a liability or a potential target for her enemies. But she stayed because he noticed the anxiety in her eyes and asked her — softly, gently — to stay. That night she gave him everything she had.

"Nat?" he asked, drawing her from her thought. "You okay?"

"Are you?" she asked, pulling him over to the edge of the rink so he could hold onto something other than her hands. She shook her hands, flexing them to make sure he hadn't broken her bones from squeezing too hard. He grimaced.

"Sorry."

"No, no." She smiled. "I'm fine. Just making sure they don't cramp." She rubbed his arm, once blood started circulating back into her fingers. "What about you?" she asked. He gave a little shrug, holding onto the barrier. "Steve?"

"I just… when you said I wasn't gonna fall, I thought—" he stopped shaking his head. "You'll probably think it's stupid. It's an ice rink." He turned to look at the other skaters, she followed his gaze, watching them and envying their carefree attitude. She hugged him, resting her head against his chest and listening to his steady heartbeat.

"I won't think it's stupid." She titled her head up to stare at him; her gaze tracing his jaw. "Tell me."

"I thought" — he took a breath and rubbed his face with his hands, before pulling away from her. He gripped the barrier, shoulders hunched up in a defensive posture and he looked away, ashamed of this weakness. — "I thought I was gonna fall through the ice and freeze again." He looked at the sky, gasping for breath. She wondered if Sharon ever laughed at him whenever he opened up to her about stuff like this. She could see the other woman do it too, a little giggle and some disarming words like he's being silly. "Pretty stupid, huh?"

She swallowed. "No," she said, looping her arm around his. "It's not. Considering that you were frozen for seventy years, it's a legitimate concern." She kicked at the ice with the top of her skate. "Pretty sure you have nothing to worry about though. Think beneath the ice is just concrete and the cooling system."

"Figures," he said, "overreacting." He shook his head. She rubbed his back, not liking how he shuddered beneath her touch.

"Steve, you were frozen for seventy years, it's understandable," she said. "We can leave, I won't be upset." She smiled. "Never liked skating."

"No," he said. "No, we can continue. Just need a moment." He closed his eyes and ran another hand down his face. "What about you? Ever had something like this happen?"

She swallowed. A child shrieked in delight, she looked and watched as the girl's parents pulled her along between them, her cherubic face bright and carefree. She envied that little girl, knowing she'll grow up with two loving parents and go to school and make friends and never once have to kill. "Once," she said, "a few months after Clint got me out. He found out I did ballet." She glanced down at her feet. Ballet always cleared her head; during the chaotic months after the Red Room, she had danced every spare moment she got. The precision needed for perfection kept her mind focus and distracted from the other things going on in her life: her fear that the Red Room would find her and kill her and kill Clint, her jumbled feelings for Clint, the guilt for all the people she killed, the repressed memories of her childhood returning to her as vivid nightmares. So, she danced and danced and danced. "So," she said, leaning against the barrier to watch the people skate, it was easier to tell the story like this than to look at Steve's face. "So, he took me to a ballet. It was Swan Lake" — she spared him a glance and a smile — "my favorite. I lasted a few minutes before I had to get up and leave. I hid in the ladies' room, crying and clawing at my arms until they were covered in bloody scratches." She took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. "Laura found me after the ballet, cleaned me up and they took me home." She gave him a blithe smile. "Never been to a ballet since."

"But you still dance? I've seen you, drawn you!" he said. She nodded, taking his hand and patting it.

"Yes, I still dance. I just can't… can't watch others dance," she said. He nodded, squeezing her hand. "You feeling better?" she asked, searching his face for any more signs of an impending panic attack. He nodded.

"Yeah, I am." He pushed out towards the center of the rink. "C'mon, I think I got my skates under me now. Don't want to waste the entire afternoon." He held out his hand. "Shall we?" he asked with a little jaunt of his head and a wink.

She laughed, shaking her head. "You're a sap," she said, taking his hand, giggling as he pulled her close and stole a kiss. The corners of her lips tugged into a frown when she noticed a hint of fear in his eyes. No, it wasn't fear, it was nervousness. What could he be nervous about? Skating? "But I love you," she said, smiling and feeling a rush of relief when that hint of nervousness vanished from his eyes.

"I love you too," he said, tucking her close into his side as he held her hand. He pushed off, gliding and she followed him, their clasped hands tethering them to each other. The Christmas music and happy laughter of the other skaters swelled around them and that brief moment of shadowy darkness lifted with warmth and good cheer. Still, Steve seemed tense, and now that she noticed it, she couldn't un-see it. Him being off bothered her, and she kept a vigilant eye on her surroundings, wondering if he had noticed something with his super soldier senses that her own senses failed to notice. "You can relax," he said, a smile on his lips. "I'm fine. No need to be so tense." His thumb graced her knuckles.

"I'm not tense," she said, squaring her shoulders, "you're the one that's tense." A group fo rowdy teenagers whizzed by them, the less coordinated ones flailed while their friends laughed, the entire group clinging to each other. Steve watched with a pensive look on his face. She squeezed his hand and he gave her another smile. "We're still decorating the tree when we get back, right?" she asked, they had gotten a beautiful Douglas Fir yesterday and planned to decorate it this evening.

"Oh, yeah," he said, coming out of his thoughts. He glanced at his watch. "We should get home and do it then. Can't be late."

"Late for what?" she asked as he led her towards the rink's exit. "Steve?" she frowned, not liking that he was keeping something from her. "I don't like secrets."

"It's not a secret," he said, sounding a bit defensive, "it's a surprise. Can't be surprised if you know about it." He grabbed the gate, swinging it open with a loud unoiled creak. They stomped over to a bench where they had left their shoes and took off the skates. She sighed, glad that her feet were finally free from the tight embrace of the skates. She wiggled her toes before putting her calf high boots back on. "Hey." Steve held his boot in his hand. "Do… would be opposed if we decorated the tree tonight? Continue wandering around New York for a little bit and then go home."

"Like how late?" she arched a brow, wondering what he was planning. She didn't like seeing him this way.

"Not late, after dinner… we can decorate it and have hot chocolate," he said, smiling. She nodded, glad to see his smile reach his eyes. "Does that sound fun?"

"It does." She smiled, retying the red scarf around her neck as he put his boots back on. He clapped his hands once he stood up, getting the feeling back into his fingers. "So, any destination in mind?" she asked as they headed back over to the desk to return their skates. The pimple-faced teenager working the counter gave them a sullen look as he took their skates. She tugged Steve's hand, not wanting him to try and cheer the kid up. She swore being unhappy and glum was the hip and edgy thing for kids to be in this day and age. Steve still couldn't quiet grasp that idea of modern American culture. They left the rink, the sounds of the sidewalk and busy New York City engulfed them. The fresh watery scent of snow, the noxious smell of exhaust, people shouting and cars honking all beneath the looming sentinels of the skyscrapers. She felt cozy and safe, her arm threaded through Steve's as they walked along, just another young couple out enjoying the early December sunshine.

"Not, really. I figured we'd stop when we find something that catches our eye," he said. "You don't mind meandering do you?"

"We can always mosey long," she said, "gotta take it slow, I'm with a senior citizen after all." She smirked, giggling as he rolled his eyes.

"Hardy har-har." He gave her a grin, kissing the tip of her nose. "You gonna be my live-in nurse? Take care of me?" He smirked. "Give me a sponge bath?"

"Oh, I'll give you more than just a sponge bath," she said. He laughed, wrinkling his nose and gave her a shove with his hip.

"You're gross, Nat," he said, "taking advantage of a senior citizen! That's low, even for you."

"It's not taking advantage when the senior citizen encourages me," she said, pulling free from his arm and looping her arms around his neck. "And you _do_ encourage me" — she kissed him — "so sweetly too." She shivered when he gave a little growl, the sound vibrating against her lips. "We can always skip the window-shopping and go home. I can give you that sponge bath you want."

His eyes smoldered, and she licked her lips in anticipation. People swelled around them, unaware of the sexual tension between them. She didn't notice nor care about the random strangers, too caught up in Steve's gaze, his embrace, the thrill of his desire for her. She pressed herself closer to him. "It's tempting," he husked, his hands running up her sides. "So tempting."

"But…"

"But," he said, "I want to do more than just lounge at home and have—"

"Amazing sex?" she frowned when she heard a beep. They pulled apart to allow Steve to reach into his pocket and fish out his phone. He thumbed it on, frowning. "Is that from Sam?" she asked, standing on her tip-toes to read the message upside down. Steve nodded.

"Yeah, he's in Europe. Still looking for Bucky." His shoulders slumped. "Sam's coming home next week, found nothing. Again." He shoved the phone back into his pocket. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

She took his hand, resuming their stroll towards some undetermined destination. "Hmm?" She squeezed his fingers.

"You uh… you said you knew Bucky during the time I was frozen?"

"Yeah?" she arched a brow, wondering where he was going with this. She told him about her past relationships with Alexi and James, her brief emotional fling with Clint, and her quick relationship with Kyle after she got comfortable at Shield. "Why?"

"Did he uh… did he ever mention me? Talk about me?" Steve asked, a strange look on his face. "Was… was my friend still in there?"

She closed her eyes, tightening her grip on his hand. "It's difficult to say. I don't know what happened. What I think happened is that he had a mission in the States and something there triggered a memory or a series of memories that allowed him to shake off Hydra's control for a while. We met and…" she licked her lips, "had a romantic relationship. I'm not sure if he mentioned you specifically but I think he's in there Steve. Just buried deep down and caked with blood." She smiled. "He did mention that he was following someone, a skinny kid that didn't know when to run away from a fight." She squeezed his hand again, running her thumb over his knuckles. "He said he missed that guy, wondered what happened to him."

Steve was silent for a long time and she worried she hit a nerve that he didn't like touched. He stopped and wrapped her up in a hug. "Thank you," he said, "there's still hope."

"There's always hope, Steve." She patted his back. "You'll find him, you'll bring him back. I know you will." She held him tighter as a shuddering sigh escaped him. She pulled away after a moment and guided him to a bench, rubbing the spot between his shoulders. "It's going to be okay."

"I know, I know, it's just… I should be out there looking for him. Sam insisted I stay here and spend Christmas with you but—"

"I would've come if you had asked or had just told me what you were planning," she said, "we're lovers but we're also partners, and I have your back. No matter what." She kissed his cheek. "I mean it."

He gave her a smile. "Thanks," he said, "I needed that. It's just… something about today. I'm not sure. Guess it's just nerves."

"I know Shield is technically dismantled, but I still have some numbers for counselors and psychiatrists. Real good ones that are experience in dealing with PTSD and long-term trauma."

He shook his head. "Nah, I'm fine. Don't need to be put in a bug house," he said. She didn't believe him and wanted to tell him he wasn't crazy, and they don't put PTSD suffers into an insane asylum. That it's okay to be suffering because of what he went through. Yet, she told him that before when they talked about this, so he knew, he just didn't do it. "Just anxious about tonight, I guess."

"That fancy dinner we're invited too?" she asked. He had been vague about this dinner, saying only that she needed to wear something nice (hinting at the dress she wore to the Howard Stark Christmas Gala last year).

"We're not invited, I'm taking you out on a proper date," he groused. She shook her head and kissed his cheek. "I only said that because I knew you'd make a fuss if I said it was a date. Tony helped me pick the restaurant."

"Now I'm suspicious," she said, poking him in the ribs, he grunted a laugh, pushing her hand away. "What are you planning Rogers. Hmmm?" She tickled him again and he squirmed away.

"Not plannin' anythin'," he said, "can't I just take my best girl out to a really nice dinner and not have her be suspicious?"

"Nope," she said, "because your 'best girl' is Black Widow, and she knows you too well to know that you just don't take her to a fancy restaurant that Tony Stark helped you pick out because you want to have a really nice dinner." She scooted closer to him. "So, spill before I tickle it outta you."

"Nope," he said, grabbing her hands, a smile blooming on his face. "Not gonna happen, you gotta wait for tonight." She huffed in frustration at that, annoyed that he laughed at her, but it dissolved when he blew on her hands to warm them and then kissed the tips of her fingers. "Nat, I—"

"Mm?"

"You make me happy," he said, rubbing her fingers between his hands. "Real happy." His smile was warm, tender and comforting; the physical manifestation of unconditional love. The sounds of the city swirled around her, a bird twittering in a bare tree, a hot dog vender hawking his wears, people laughing and children shrieking. The light dimmed, a cloud passing over the brilliant blaze of the winter sun. She felt content, peaceful. As if whatever the future brought her she could weather it so long as Steve was besides her. She leaned over and kissed him, her fingertips against his jaw.

It was a sweet kiss, a tender kiss. A kiss shared between two people that pieced themselves together and found a beautiful mosaic within each other. She pulled away, smiling a little bit. "Steve," she said, her lips brushing against his.

"Hm?"

"Why all the fancy plans?" she asked, nuzzling his nose. "An outing in Manhattan, a fancy dinner planned for this evening" — she wiggled her fingers against his stomach. He choked on laughter as he fought off her hands. — "you're being awfully secretive Rogers."

He grabbed her hands. "You'll just have to wait to find out," he said and kissed her. She sighed in contentment, sinking into the kiss. For a moment, the world fell away and nothing else mattered but him and their love.

"Dude," a voice said; she and Steve broke apart to see two boys, both lean and lanky with gangly limbs, their eyes the size of dinner plates and their mouths hanging open. One had his phone out as if he just took a picture. Steve tilted his head, confused by their expressions, but she knew, and it chilled her blood. "You're Captain America and Black Widow." As soon as the teenage boy said that, Steve's face blanched.

"No, we're not," she said, her face void of emotion. "I'm Mary Matthers and this is Ben Farrell." She stood up, tugging Steve's hand. She heard the boys gasp when Steve stood up, impressed with his physique. "May I see your phone?" she asked, holding out her hand and giving them a disarming smile. The one with the phone shook his head, pocketing it. She ground her teeth. She didn't want to rob a kid but—

"We'll delete it," the older boy said, nudging the younger (who she guessed was his younger brother). He pulled out a notebook and a pen, she arched a brow. "If you promise to give us your autographs" — he held the notebook away — "your _real_ autographs."

"Sure," Steve agreed, holding out his hand. The boy handed him the notebook and he flipped through the pages. "Pretty good," he said, and she peeked over his shoulder, smiling a little at the sketches the boy did. "Keep practicing and you'll be better than me." He found a blank spot in the note book and signed his name, even adding a little shield to it. He handed the notebook to her. She shook her head, glaring at the page.

"You better keep your word," she said as she signed her name, snapping the book around the pen and handing it back to the boy. "Don't want to get in trouble with Stark Industries PR department."

The boys looked even more star-struck about the prospect of Stark Industries PR department contacting them. "Thanks," the boys chirped and ran off, muttering amongst them as they ogled the signatures. Steve chuckled, snaking his arm around her. He pressed a kiss to her temple and she glared at him.

"Really?" she hissed. "After what just happened?" She growled when he chuckled and nuzzled her neck. Curse him and his ridiculously need to be tactile. "Steve."

"Relax, it was just two kids and they'll delete the picture. We gave them our autographs," he said and steered her towards the subway. "But to be cautious, let's get home and we can decorate the tree before going to dinner."

She sighed. "I guess," she said, a bit glum because she was looking forward to wandering Manhattan with him. He squeezed her. "Make it up to me?"

"Sure," he said, smiling as he led her towards the subway entrance. "We can do this again with better disguises."

"Or less PDA."

"You know, you told me once that that public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable." He pulled her out of the stream of people, his arms around her waist as he pulled her back flush against his board muscular chest.

"Yes, they do," she said, gasping a little as his lips ghosted over the sensitive spot on her neck. "Your point?" she arched a brow. He kissed her neck and she closed her eyes, a soft moan escaping her lips.

"Still uncomfortable?" he asked, letting her go and heading into the crowd of people. She stood there for half a heartbeat too long, licking her lips and getting her desire under control.

"Damn you, Rogers," she grumbled and trotted to catch up to him.

* * *

Steve's heart was thumping beneath her palm, a sure steady beat that lulled her into a state of blissful ease. She was warm, tucked up against his side and the blankets covering them. A languid smile graced her lips, the ache between her legs pleasant and welcomed. His phone began to beep, and he grumbled as he grabbed for it. It fell to the carpet with a soft thump. "Jesus Christ, Tony just has to make these things annoying, doesn't he?" He straightened, phone in hand and the blankets pooling around his waist. She shivered.

"It's probably nothing, Steve," she said, "get back here and snuggle. It's chilly without you." She smiled up at him, and he leaned down to kiss her. She sighed, drawing it out into several long lazy kisses.

"Love to snuggle more, doll, but we have to get up."

She pouted, her feet nudging the three cats snoozing at the foot of the bed. "Why?" she asked. "Mission?" Fury hadn't contacted them about anything recently. Shield may be gone, but the Avengers filled that gap and Fury was the indirect leader of the group. She didn't want a mission for Christmas. Three-year streak holding steady, let's make it a fourth year. She thought.

"Kinda," he said, "Fury isn't calling. But you do need to get dressed," he said, pulling the comforter off and getting out of bed. The cats watched him head to the bathroom. "And it looks like we'll have to decorate the tree after. Since you insisted on unwrapping presents," he said and gave her a wink.

"Well, you didn't seem to be complaining," she called, flopping back onto the bed and stretched. She heard him come back to the bed, the mattress dipping with his added weight. He straddled her body, caging her in with his arms and warm muscular bulk. She grinned. "What? Don't like that kind of talk, Steve?"

"You know what Romanoff?" he smirked, his eyes smoldering with love and lust. She shivered, a board smirk spreading across her lips as she pressed her knee to his groin. He gave a soft groan. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph."

"I know that, Rogers," she cooed into his throat as she pressed sucking kisses against his skin. He growled, using his weight to push her knee away and press his hips against hers. She smirked at the feel of him. He kissed her cheek, then lips, nuzzled her chin and gave it a soft nip so she'd title her head back and expose her throat to him. She moaned as he kissed and suck, his fingers massaging her scalp and the warmth return to pool between her legs. "Steve…" she whispered as he trailed lazy kisses along her collarbone and breasts. He stopped, pressing his nose between her cleavage before resting his head on her breasts. She bucked her hips, his weight becoming heavy and annoying. "Steve."

"What am I doing, Nat?" he asked. His tone sounded distant and lost. She wiggled her arms free and cradled his head, running her fingers through his soft hair. "After… y'know before the ice I thought one day I'll meet a nice girl, marry her and settle down and start a family." He kissed her breast. "I wanted that. I wanted that so bad. Find some place I can call home, where I didn't lose everyone."

"Then the ice?" she asked. He nodded, pulling her closer. She waited for him to continue, providing him the comfort and solidarity he needed.

"Then the ice and… now… I'm not sure if having a family and stability is for me. I just… you know our last mission? The one with the freaky robot? Thank God, Tony destroyed it."

"Yeah, I think Hulk did, Tony seemed pretty enamored with the idea of a fully functional AI."

"Regardless, before… it looked at me… looked at me as if it saw right through me and into my soul." He shuddered, holding her tight and hiding his face in her breasts. "It told me…well, it said: Captain Rogers, Steven G. A soldier without a war."

"Is that's what's been bothering you?" she asked. "Something a robot said? Don't worry about it Steve. I love you. You have friends, and I'm your family." She smiled. "That's all you need to know."

"No, it's not that, Natasha." He sat up, shifting off her. He rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his head. "It's just… what if I can't stop? What if… what if I have to keep moving? Keep fighting and if I stop I'll die?" He shook his head. "Mam always said I was a wanderin' soul, always gotta keep movin'."

"Steve, that mission was five months ago, why are you bringing it up now?" she asked. He flinched, his shoulders hunching up around his head. "You seem pretty fine to me right now." She reached for him, but he pulled away. "Steve? What's going on, why are you acting like this?" she asked, worried about him. "Is it your… is it your PTSD? I know a therapist that'll see you short notice, today even. It's going to be okay and—"

He shook his head. "No. No, it's not that. I— I should just call and cancel the reservations. This is a bad idea; the entire thing is a bad idea." He moved to leave, but she grabbed him by the wrist. "Nat."

"No," she said, "don't cancel. I've been looking forward to this dinner. Especially since you've kept it so secret. I want to know why. So, let's go." She pecked his lips. She smiled at him. He nodded, a smile quirking his lips. "There's the Steve Rogers, I know," she said.

"Marry me," he blurted out. "I was planning on doing this at dinner, but" — he stood up and went to his sock drawer, she watched (or rather stared at his perfect ass), as he dug through it and came back, a little black box cupped in his hand. — "gotta do this now, while I still think it's a good idea, before I lose my nerve." He dropped to one knee, holding up the little box and opened it. She gasped, staring at the ring. It was a single platinum band with a diamond solitaire. Nothing fancy, just simple and clean and elegant. She smiled, feeling the tears welling up in her eyes. "Natasha Romanoff, would you marry me?" He blinked, took a breath and added, "please."

She choked on a strange mixture of laughter and tears. She kissed him. "Yes," she said. "Yes, of course I'll marry you." She nuzzled him as he slipped the ring on her finger; never had she felt so loved or so at peace in her life.

* * *

She still couldn't stop looking at the ring on her finger. It glittered in the soft glow of the lights. The promise weight of a future with Steve felt comforting and alien on her finger. She sat there, admiring it as soft music flowed through the speakers, old Christmas songs and traditional carols. She sipped her wine, glancing at Steve. He looked like a fish out of water. His large frame was too big for the delicate chair and the fancy table, though he looked handsome in that navy tux, it did nothing to hide the kid from Brooklyn persona he draped over himself like a blanket. He stared at the menu. This place served a four-course meal, and she wondered if that'll be enough to fill him up or if they'll have to stop off at the greasy diner on their way home because he'll be hungry. "What's es-car-got?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Escargot," she said, "it's French. Snails in a butter and herb sauce." She liked escargot. His face twisted into a frown. "They kinda taste like clams. You like clams."

"I like clam chowder." He gave her a weak smile. "Haven't used French since the war."

"It's fine, nobody is gonna come to beat you with frog legs and snails because you can't speak French." She smiled when he gave a weak little laugh. "Ooh, they have some fancy meatballs."

"Meatballs?" he said and bowed his head to look at the menu. "I don't see them," he grumbled. "I keep finding the snails though."

"Tell you what, order the snails, I'll order the meatballs, we'll just swap."

"Okay," he said. He shifted, and the chair gave a squeak of protest. "This is a real fancy place."

She nodded, looking around at the restaurant with its scallop pink walls and beige carpet and eggshell white ceiling and chandeliers. The tables spaced far enough apart to give the air of privacy and the waiters walking around in striking black tuxedos with a stark white towel over their arm. A fountain of food and wine knowledge to help the guests who never been to such a high-end eatery navigate all the etiquette and ways of fine dining. Their waiter just happened to be an older gentleman and a righteous snob that instantly recognized that Steve was out of his depth and made little snide remarks about it.

Her poor boyfriend, flushed with embarrassment as he stammered through ordering their wine. She tried to intervene but both Steve and the waiter refused her. She found it hard to believe that Tony ate here. The waiter returned, she smiled at him, but he glowered at her. "You ready to order?" he asked, his tone clipped.

"Uh… yeah, yeah. Think we are," Steve said. "I'll uh… have the uh… escargot and my fiancée will have the uh—"

"Savory meatballs," she said, giving the waiter her most disarming smile, "if you don't mind."

"Of course," he said, voice tight as he took their menus and walked off. Steve relaxed and tugged at his bowtie. She tsked.

"What?"

"If you play with it, it'll be crooked and then I'll have to fix it. Your hands are good at many things, Steve, tying bowties is not one of them." She smiled, slipping her foot out of her shoe and trailing her toe up his leg. He arched a brow, the corner of his lip tugging up into a half smile. "Not that your hands need to be good at bowtie tying, at any rate."

"You like what my hands can do."

She hummed, taking his hand in hers. "That I do." She turned his hand over and kissed his palm, smiling at the bit of lipstick that remained behind. "That I do," she said and smirked at his flush. They went back to their menus and their waiter returned with their appetizers. She ordered a minestrone soup and he opted for a salad. For their main course, he got a dry-aged cut of Kobe beef with a baked potato and asparagus. She got duck breast with mushrooms and wild rice. Steve tried the snails (or attempted to), his hands too big and clumsy to maneuver the delicate fork and snail shell. His strength too much for such fine work. She worked the first snail out for him. He tried it but didn't like it and they swapped (she hadn't touched any of her meatballs). She was glad he liked the meatballs; she had better snails in France. The chef didn't know the first thing about preparing snails as they were tough and dry.

They ate the soup and salad (well Steve picked at his salad, he wasn't much for fancy vegetables). Then their main courses came. It was the first dish he actually enjoyed; the look of pure bliss on his face as he ate the steak was divine. "Never knew steak could taste so good," he muttered. She smiled, pleased that he was enjoying his food so much. "One thing I like about this century is the food's so much better," he said.

"Really?"

"Yeah." He ate some more, a little moan of delight escaping his mouth. She chuckled. "So good."

"Don't come on me from eating steak, I may start to worry." She winked, smiling around her fork as he blushed and almost choked. "Was the food really that bad?"

"Yeah," he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin. "We boiled everything. Mam would by a cheap cut of meat and boil it with cabbage and an onion, if we had it, and some potatoes. Didn't use a lot of salt 'cause it was expensive. Lemme tell you, I got sick of boiled beef real fast."

She smiled. "I don't have any fond memories about terrible food," she said, "it was a luxury I didn't think about it. Especially growing up in the Red Room." Where they poisoned us as a test to see which of us could detect poison and survive. "But I do remember being on missions as the eye candy for rich men. Ate a lot of good food during those missions, stuff like this," she said. "Is there anything you won't eat?"

He thought for a moment, fork still in his mouth. "No, not really. Growing up poor, you learn to not question food too much. If you had it, you ate it. I guess some of those weird tropical fruit. Like the durian. You?"

"Organ meat." She made a face. "Liver, kidney, sweetbreads, brains, tongue, eyes. Nope. Just won't do it." She shrugged. "Everything else I'll eat."

"Huh. Don't think I had any of that or if I did, I didn't really question it. Mam said it would help me grow so I ate it." He finished his plate. "Damn that was good."

She nodded, finishing up hers. "Now there's dessert," she said. "I heard they make sugar animals here."

"Sugar animals?" he asked.

"Yeah, animals made out of sugar," she said, leaning back and sipping her wine. "Always wanted to eat a sugar swan." She said, smiling a little at the idea. He didn't seemed thrilled about it. She learned early on with Steve that he wasn't a big fan of sweets, due in large part to never having the luxury of eating a lot of sweet things. A couple walked by their table, she glanced up and noted the woman's black backless dress and the man's charcoal suit.

"Hey," the man stopped, coming over to them. Steve gulped his wine, almost choking and spilling it all down his front. "You're Black Widow and Captain America!" the man said. She and Steve flushed. "Wonderful, wonderful! I'm Brett Jennings from KYXQ Channel 6 local news," he said and thrust his hand out. Steve, ever the polite one, shook the reporter's hand. "I know this is a bit spur of the moment, and I'm sorry if I'm ruining your dinner."

"Oh, no," she said, her voice dripping with venomous sarcasm, "you aren't." She rolled her eyes. "It's not like we're trying to have a nice private dinner or anything. We _love_ it when reporters try to pry into our private life." She watched as Steve buried his face in his hands with a groan.

"Nat," Steve whined, shifting in his chair. Brett didn't pick up on it, instead he pulled a chair over from an unused table — ignoring his date — and sat down as he pulled a pencil and notepad from his pocket.

"Excellent!" he said. She frowned when his eyes found her ring. "So," he said, jumping right into his questions. Steve glanced around, she continued to glare at the report, but nobody stepped in to stop this. "How long have you two been dating? The internet is abuzz with that rather intimate kiss today outside the ice rink at Rockefeller Center."

She felt her jaw twitch. "They promised," Steve said, hurt and betrayal in his voice. "Those boys promised not to post it on the internet if they got our autographs."

"Ah-ha! So, you do admit to it. Now, do the rest of the Avengers know about your relationship? How come you haven't made it public? Is it because of the nature of being Avengers? Afraid the likes of Hydra or a terrorist group will come and hurt your girlfriend?"

She snorted, rolling her eyes. "I'd be more afraid for the terrorists or Hydra if they captured Nat, honestly." Steve couldn't help himself but quirk a smile. "My girl can handle herself."

"Uh-huh, uh-huh," Brett said, scribbling. "So, Ms. Romanoff—"

" _Miss_ Romanoff," she hissed, getting annoyed with the oblivious reporter and that nobody on the waitstaff did anything to curtail this behavior. She was going to have a long and serious talk with Tony, who'll have a long and serious talk with the manager and owner of this place. "And no, I'd not worry about Steve's safety during missions, as you already deduced, he's Captain America."

Brett blanched. "I uh… was gonna ask you how long you've been engaged and when's the wedding, actually."

She glowered at the reporter, who whimpered like a whipped dog. "We never agreed to this, but you're too full of yourself to respect us and" — she found their waiter, who had that smug look on his face as if he was behind everything. She stood up with all the poise and grace of the dancer she is and marched over to him. — "you have no respect at all," she said, her voice even and firm. "If you had an announce of respect for me or my boyfriend you would have never allowed this to happen." She gave the man her signature smile, pleased when he paled. "I hope you weren't expecting a big fat tip." She looked over at Steve. "Let's go."

"Uh, right," Steve said, trying not to gloat a little. He stood up, scooped up her clutch while he gave the report an apologetic smile. He put his hand on the small of her back and lead her to the front, where they paid and collected their coats before they left.

* * *

They didn't head back to Brooklyn to their apartment to decorate the tree. No, because they got a call a few minutes into the drive from Tony telling them to get their asses to Avengers Tower _now_. Steve had one of his confused frowns, and by that look along, she wasn't sure if Tony was angry at them or trying to hide his amusement. So, they drove to the tower and now were riding the elevator up to the penthouse where Pepper and Tony lived. Steve picked at a thread on his jacket. "I'll find some place that makes sugar swans and uh… get you one."

"Thanks," she said. He nodded, and elevator music filled the awkward void. "I'm sorry," she said after a moment. "I didn't mean to—"

"Nah, it's uh… okay," he said, and the elevator dinged at the top floor. They came out. Tony was in a ratty old t-shirt and jeans, glass of scotch in hand, Pepper was busy on a tablet in a faded white blouse and jeans, her feet resting on Tony's lap.

"And the lovebirds have arrived," Tony said, saluting them with his glass. "And what a stir you too made." He mimed throwing a ball, and a holographic screen popped up replaying a clip of the scene at the restaurant, in the lower corner was the picture of them kissing earlier that day. "When Pepper came into my lab earlier, I was afraid I did something wrong, so it was a nice relief to find out that nope, it's you two she's pissed at." He took a sip of his drink. "Right Pep?" he squeezed her foot. Pepper glared at him.

"Do you realize what a PR nightmare, you two caused?" she asked, fixing them with a withering glower. "Ever since that video from the restaurant went online it's gone viral. I'm having news agencies from all over the country and the world calling me, trying to get an official statement. Entertainment Weekly and People magazine are clamoring to do interviews and wedding issues. People wanting to know what happened, how long have you two been together, when will there be an official announcement. When did you two get engaged and for how long?" she ran her hand through her hair, looking haggard and breathless. "Like I said, PR disaster."

"Internet is saying this is bigger than the royal wedding back in 2011," Tony said. "You two made a big stir." He grinned. "#ColdWar is all the rage on twitter."

"#ColdWar? Tony, what does that even mean?" Steve asked, confused. She rolled her eyes. Pepper was right, this _is_ a disaster.

"I knew I should've mugged that kid for his phone," Natasha grumbled. Tony snorted into his drink, Steve looked aghast, chiding her.

"It would've been less of a PR nightmare if you did," Pepper grumbled. She rubbed her face and declined a call from one of the many people crying for her attention. "Alright, why don't you two shower and change into something less formal and we'll discuss our options now that you two are out in the open."

"Make it sound like hunting season is upon," Steve grumbled.

Tony raised his glass, a shit-eater grin on his face. It was clear that he was enjoying the fact that the public's attention was — for once — not on him. Though she thought that Tony Stark thrived on the media attention his antics brought, but she guessed that even someone like Stark could use a break now and again. "That it is, my friends, that it is," he said. Steve shook his head, taking her hand and leading her back into the elevator. "And no sausage sinking, Cap! That can wait for the honeymoon!" Tony called after them. She shot Tony a murderous glare, pleased to see him flinch. The door closed and the elevator went down a few floors before they opened again. They had an entire floor to themselves ever since they started dating. It was a silent walk down the hall to their room.

The suite they had was large and spacious, with big bay windows that over looked the scintillating city. A double king size bed sat against one wall, the sheets crisp and neat, the pillows fluffed and place in a pleasing manner. She went over and sat on the bed watching Steve take his tuxedo jacket off. They didn't speak for several long tense moments. He loosened the bowtie as he opened the drawer, grabbing a faded SSR t-shirt and a pair of sweats. He gave her a look before going into the bathroom. The door closed, she heard the water running.

With a sigh, she got up and began to undress, slipping into a pair of well-worn yoga pants a camisole (with a built-in bra), and a light jacket. She undid her hair and ran her fingers through it, pausing every now and then to stare at her engagement ring and to untangle it from her hair. She put away her dress and Steve's tux knowing JARVIS will make sure it got to the dry cleaners. She pulled on some thick fuzzy wool socks and waited for Steve. He came out a few minutes later with his damp and dressed. "Think you may need a new shirt, that one looks like it's about to split at the seams."

His shoulders slump and he sat next to her. Sighing, he pulled her into a hug and mussed her hair with his nose. "What are we gonna do, Nat?" he asked. "Even when I was selling war bonds, I didn't like my face plastered all over everywhere. Now… now; how could I be so stupid as to trust those kids."

"It'll be okay, we'll get through this. We always do." She tilted her head up and pecked his lips. "And it was bound to come out sooner or later, just sucks that it happened like this." She leaned against his broad chest, feeling safe in his arms. This was her favorite place to be, wrapped up in his arms. She remembered how he shielded her from the missile strike when they exposed Shield as Hydra. She figured it was then that she admitted to herself that she loved him. "I love you," she said, kissing his throat. "I just want—"

"I'm sorry to interrupt Captain Rogers, Miss Romanoff, but Ms. Potts is insisting you return," JARVIS said. She sighed, pressing her nose into Steve's chest. She didn't want to go back and deal with everything.

Steve pulled away from her with a groan. "C'mon," he said, "this'll be like selling war bonds, minus the bullets and dead Nazis." He smiled. "Probably have to let them take a few pictures of us together, do a few interviews. Nothing to it. Bing bang boom."

She laughed, shaking her head. "You are optimistic, watch, it's not going to be like that." She stood up, taking his hand. "I bet you one magazine wants to tail us as we plan our wedding."

"The wedding… we haven't even discussed when we wanted to get married," he said. "We haven't discussed anything beyond—"

"Getting engaged? Yeah," she said, "I know." She squeezed his hand in encouragement as they headed out of their suite and back to the elevator. She pressed the button, waiting for it to come. "We'll get through this Steve."

"This is not gonna be like selling war bonds. This'll be more like preforming for the troops," he said. "Got a tomato thrown at me. And someone asked me to sign their uh… buttocks."

"Did they really?" she asked, arching a brow. The elevator doors open and they stepped inside. "Why?"

"I uh… asked for a volunteer. They weren't happy about it. I mean, I can understand, they liked the girls, didn't want see a guy in tights." He made a face. "I had everything I wanted but I was wearing tights."

"And now?" she asked, looking at him. He smiled, cupping her cheek. "Do you have everything you want now?"

"Well, I'm not wearing tights," he said. She smirked, standing on her tiptoes to peck his nose.

"I'm sure Howard Stark kept your original uniform, sure Tony can find it and let you wear it. Then you'll have your tights back" — she cupped his groin — "probably won't do this justice" — she gave him a gentle squeeze, enjoying how he shuddered with a groan — "not that I want everyone to see this."

"Natasha…" he whispered. The elevator dinged, she pulled away and the doors glided open with a soft mechanical clatter. She walked out first, Steve stumbling behind her as he adjusted himself. Tony and Pepper both arched their brows. She sat on the loveseat near the couch, Steve beside her. Pepper took a deep breath.

"Okay," she said, "People Magazine is offering the Maria Stark Children's Hospital and attaching charity half a billion dollars to cover your wedding."

Her eyes widened and Steve choked on his spit. "H-Half a billion?" he forced out, rubbing his throat. "That's… that's…"

"That'll provide so much care for those kids," Pepper said. "Probably for a year or two." She couldn't help but smiled. "They're on hold right now, I told them I'll discuss it with you."

"I was going to say it's a lot of money," Steve muttered and glanced at her. She looked at Pepper who had her business face on. "Nat?"

"What does all this entail?" she asked. Pepper brought up a screen, flicking through it at a quick pace. She frowned and glanced at Steve who looked terrified at the intimacy these people were asking for. The privacy they were giving up.

"They… they—"

"From now until you two slip on your rings and say I do, you will be tailed by a mobile camera crew. Every step of the wedding process, every dress Natasha tries on, ever tuxedo you look at. Caterer, wedding planner, napkin folder, the sugar animal maker, the wedding cake, where you want to get married, if it's gonna be religious or not, the works… will be documented and released to the public, including monetary amounts."

Steve gave a low whistle and she felt her gut twist. Even when she dumped all of Shield-Hydra's data onto the internet, she didn't expose herself _this_ much. "Will they be asking what the first position will be when we consummate the marriage?" she asked, trying to keep her tone light and jovial. She blanched when Pepper nodded. "Der'mo."

"Everything, Natasha. And I mean, _everything_ ," Pepper said. "It'll be on every social media feed, every entertainment news station, local and national news, and the magazine. Live and constant updates of your soon-to-be heroic husband and wife duo." Pepper sighed. "You'll be appearing on tv shows, doing live stream interviews. They'll pick apart your relationship with a fine-tooth comb." Pepper gave them a sympathetic look. "Steve, they'll ask about your relationships with Peggy and Sharon" — she saved her saddest look for Natasha — "Nat… they'll bring up every man you ever slept with."

"Most of them were missions," she said, feeling small and weak. She could hear Rumlow's taunting voice as he told Steve that she was little more than the office whore. She shuddered. That was two years ago, yet his words still stung. "I didn't care about any of them. The easier way to get close to a mark was to seduce them. I… all of them?" She bit her lip when Pepper nodded. She glanced at Steve, who had a serious look on his face.

"It's a gossip rag," Tony said, sounding a bit angry. "And gossip rags like scandal, so they're gonna try and find something."

"I don't care about who she slept with in the past," Steve said, "she's with me now. That's all that matters to me. She loves me." He pulled her close, rubbing his hand up and down her arm. "It's okay doll, we can elope."

"That'll cause an even bigger PR nightmare," Pepper said, "so please, don't do that." She rubbed her temples. "I'm sorry Natasha, but Tony's right, these people are gonna try and find a scandal."

She nodded, looking at her knees as she leaned more and more into Steve's side. "I know," she said. Her past had always been a contentious issue for her, but the fact that she slept with countless men (and some women) had never given her pause. It had always been the people she killed that made her stop. Now… now they were going to try to use her sexual exploits from her past to do what: Convince Steve not to marry her?

"My suggestion to both of you is to get married soon," Pepper said. She frowned at that, she was hoping for a few months to plan a wedding, work out any kinks she and Steve may have, figure things out and let the fact they are taking this step settle before the actual nuptials.

"People love a Christmas wedding," Tony chimed, "it's only a few weeks away. I'll foot the bill for the wedding planning crap, Pepper can organize it, and all you two have to do is play along and do the interviews. Everything can be done here in-house, so you won't have cameras shoved into your face all day."

"No," she said, standing up and going to the large bay windows. "I don't want a Christmas wedding."

"What? Nat," Steve protested, following her. She stared at the city, it's bright lights and traffic, the cars and people like ants. Did they know? Did they care about anyone other than themselves? The politicians say they had to care about everyone, but did the average person really care about everyone or just those they considered to be precious and their own? It had started to snow, the snowflakes big and fat drifted down in lazy zigzags, their path determined by the wind. He came to her side, pulling her close and keeping his voice soft. "Nat, I know this isn't the wedding or engagement either of us had planned but… the cat's outta the bag," he said, rubbing her arms. She refused to look at him, staring at the city, her lips pursed into a tight line. "Nat?"

She continued to watch the snow, thinking about her past, about what Rumlow had told Steve in the tree lot two years ago. It made her skin crawl and shame wash over her. It was almost as bad as the shame she felt about her infertility. No, that's more regret, she decided. She pulled away from Steve, trying to put some distance between them. "I don't want a Christmas wedding."

He stepped closer to her, taking her hand. He never did take hints well. "Okay, but why?" he asked. "It's the closest date, they'll have a few weeks to do their interviews. It's a win-win for everyone." He pulled her into his arm. "You heard Pepper. If we elope we'll have a bigger PR disaster on our hands. At least this one is manageable and the money is going to charity."

"I just don't." She pulled away, wrapping her arms around herself. This was too much, too fast. Her life as a spy was one thing, who she killed, what she did, how she affected the geopolitical climate… and having the public know? That was something she can handle, something she can slough off and put on a new mask. But the people she slept with: her marks, Alexi, James, and Kyle (she thanked God, she and Clint never got beyond anything than a few awkward kisses). Those made her feel dirty and whorish, and someone undeserving of Steve's love, let alone the ability to call to herself his wife.

"Natasha," he sighed. "You gotta tell me." She glanced at him, upset with herself even more at his hurt and confused expression. He was trying to be supportive and comforting, everything a good boyfriend should be doing. Yet it just made her more upset, more frustrated. She tried to find her center, that calm black void where no emotions bothered her, but she couldn't.

She huffed. "Fine. My birthday is Christmas. I don't want to have my birthday and my anniversary on the same bloody day." She held him in place with a glare. "And I'm starting to think that maybe I don't want to get married, that I don't want any of this, if I have to jump through these hoops and let strangers pry into my personal life and post it for the world to see."

"How is that any different from dumping all of Shield's files onto the internet?" Steve asked, his tone heated. "Because everyone knows everything about me now, too."

"Oh, grow up Rogers," she snapped, "everyone knew everything about you already, you have a damn exhibit in the Smithsonian!" She waved her hand at the window. "Your entire history is plastered in a museum!"

"That doesn't mean I want it up there, but I'm a national symbol. I'm like a living Statue of Liberty."

"If only we were so damn lucky," she seethed, her tone cold and icy. "Maybe this shows us that we aren't meant to be together, to be married. Better end this now before we're twenty years in and have a dog." She watched the fight leave him. He bowed his head, looking like a whipped puppy. She took a step back when he reached for her, shot Tony and Pepper a withering scowl and left the room.

* * *

She went down to the gym, taking her frustration and anger out of the training dummies. It felt good; the burn in her muscles and her labored breathing. As her anger faded, sorrow and regret took its place, which only caused her to become upset again because none of this should be happening. What hurt the most is she took her anger out on Steve. Steve, who had been nothing but loyal and kind and supportive and loving. Steve, who had just wanted to comfort her and shield her from her hurts because that's what men did. It was no reflection on her physical capability to protect herself, he knew she could hold her own in a fight, but he was raised to protect women and he was going to do that. Even if it meant protecting her from herself.

She stopped, putting one hand on the battered dummy. She knew she hurt him, especially when she said she was reconsidering marriage. He was already unsure about marriage himself and he didn't need to hear her doubts. She sighed and looked up when the door to the gym opened. Steve came in, walking towards her and looking glum. "Hey," he said.

"Hey."

He scuffed his toe against the mat. "Talked to Tony and Pepper after you left." She nodded. He gave a sigh, puffing out his cheeks. "Told Pepper we'd only agree if they kept questions related to us and the wedding and not dig into our past romantic history. She said it would be a tough sell, but if People Magazine really wants to do this, they'll swallow it and agree." He hung his head. "May drop the price tag a bit though, but that's okay in my book. Any amount going to the Maria Stark Children's Hospital is good." He gave her a small smile.

"Thanks," she said, returning the smile. She didn't like the distance she forced between them. Letting out a long breath, she stepped away from the dummy and wrapped her arms around his waist. "I'm sorry I yelled at you," she said, shivering when he ran his large hand up and down her back. "I didn't… I… I want to get married to you, Steve. I just…"

"Nat," he whispered, tilting her head up so she could look him in the eye. "It's okay, I understand." She frowned. "What? I do."

"No, you don't," she said, pulling away and hugging herself. "Remember when Rumlow found us in the tree lot year before last?"

"Yeah, he said some stuff about you and I didn't like it," he said, "made him apologize." She smiled at that, at how Steve had come to her rescue and made Rumlow eat his words. "I don't see what he has to do with this? The guy's probably dead."

"It's not him… it's… I don't want you to see me as a whore." She hung her head, rubbing her arm. "I have red in my ledger still, but… I can deal with that, I'm making amends for it. But… I used sex as a weapon. Every mark I slept with, only to get close and kill them. How could you want me? How could you want to have wife like that?"

He pulled her into a hug. "One of Christ's most loyal disciples was a whore; her name was Mary Magdalen. He forgave her and she followed him." He nuzzled her cheek. "If Christ can forgive her, then I can forgive you. I already have, Nat. Like I said to Tony and Pepper, I don't care. I love you, and you love me. I don't care that you had a husband in Russia, that you and Bucky were lovers for a brief time, that you and Clint shared—"

"Weird, awkward kisses," she said, a little laugh escaping her. He nodded.

"And I don't care about you and Kyle." He kissed her forehead. "All that matters is you and me, the here and now. I love you, I forgave you your sins a long time ago, because I saw the good person underneath all the blood and heartache. And I fell in love with her," he said and gave he a dopey grin. She shook her head, pressing herself closer to his broad chest. She felt safe in his arms; safe and loved and wanted.

"Thanks," she said, "I needed to hear that and I'm sorry I snapped at you. You were just trying to comfort me."

"I understand," he said, giving her a little smile. "To be honest, I'm still not sure if I want to get married either. I just feel like I can't turn myself off. That I have to keep fighting." He stroked her hair. "But you make me wanna try at the very least." She kissed him, a brief chaste kiss. "So, is your birthday really Christmas?"

"Yep," she said, pulling away and taking his hand, "it really is." She grinned, shaking his hand. "What not gonna say anything?"

"I just… I can't believe… I never got you a present," he said, flabbergasted. "I'm terrible and—"

"Don't beat yourself up, Steve. Clint's the only one that knows and every Christmas I spent with you in some way, so they were all special. Especially last year, that was my favorite birthday so far."

"Oh?"

"You told me you loved me," she said. He grinned, and she kissed him, enjoying the feel of his lips against hers. He pulled her close. "C'mon, let's get some sleep. Pepper has to negotiate our terms now, so I'm not expecting an answer until tomorrow." She headed towards the door, leading him by the hand. "Once this is all done, we can go home and decorate our poor naked Christmas tree."

"Damn, I forgot about our tree," he said with a chuckle. "Also, I told Tony and Pepper a Christmas Eve wedding would be better."

"Still close to my birthday," she grumbled, giving him a mock glare, "but not _on_ my birthday. So, I guess that'll do." The elevator opened, and they stepped inside. She wiggled into his embrace as he told JARVIS to send the elevator to their floor. The silence pressed in around them, the LED lights soft and white, bathing them in a glow that was almost ethereal. "So," she said, breaking the silence. "This is really happening."

"Yeah."

"We're really doing it." She looked at him, watching him stare unblinkingly ahead. She rubbed her body against his to snap him out of his thoughts. He looked down at her, a tiny smile on his face.

"Yeah, we really are."

"I can't… it almost doesn't feel real."

"No, it doesn't." The soft hum of the elevator rushed in to fill the silence. She leaned against him again, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too." He pressed a kiss to her head, and she smiled. Sometimes their height difference annoyed her but most of the time, she enjoyed it. The elevator sighed to a stop at their floor. They got out and went to their room, where she showered and met him in bed. She feared she wasn't gonna fall asleep right away, but the events of the day caught up with her and she found herself drifting off to sleep as soon as Steve tucked her against his broad frame.

* * *

Things began to pick up the following days. They did get to go home and decorate their tree, but had to return to Avengers Tower for interviews, dress fittings, menu selection, what color she wanted napkins and table clothes. She was glad Tony was footing the bill for the wedding since she felt like it was going overboard. She and Steve liked to keep things simple, and it just felt too much at times. They argued once about what type of service it should be; he had wanted a non-domination service, but she insisted on it being Catholic. It wasn't much of a fight, but he ceded to her whims in the end and went to talk to the local bishop about marrying her.

With the Church's permission receive and the head priest at the church they selected onboard (the man was tickled pick that Captain America wanted to have his wedding at his church), the team of wedding planners Pepper had hired swooped down upon the church, discussing how best to decorate it for a Christmas Eve wedding. In order to not disrupt Midnight Mass, she and Steve both agreed on a late afternoon wedding. The church goers even helped decorate the church with the planners, they too, excited that Captain America and Black Widow would be marrying at their church.

The guest list was sent out to only their friends and family, and Happy Hogan had taken his job as head of security with stalwart seriousness, making sure nobody that wasn't invited came. People Magazine felt burned by this, but it was part of the deal they had struck in order to cover this story exclusively. And part of that deal meant doing interviews. She didn't mind the interviews so much, but Steve never had much love for the limelight, so she manipulated the conversation in order to spare him the attention and shorten the entire thing. She hoped he was okay with everything and after their last interview, he told her he was meeting Sam and Tony at the airport, to head down to DC.

It took her a moment to realize he was going to tell Peggy about this. She tried not to feel miffed, even though she understood the old woman's importance to him. Instead, she kissed his cheek and told him to have a good visit and went back to the tower. The dressmaker and Pepper were waiting for her and she was once again poked and prodded and measured. The dressmaker was giddy with excitement at the idea of creating Black Widow's wedding dress (Steve was spared this as he was going to wear his Army dress blues). Looking at her wedding dress in the mirror: off the shoulders with white faux fur and dangly puffballs and silvery lace over a beaded bodice, the skirt multi-layered and flared out like a bell, the lace on the hem spiking up at intervals to create a snowflake effect. Pepper lowered her veil, and a crown of holly berries, evergreen boughs and white flowers adorn her head. She looked at herself in the mirror, unable to believe this was real or happening. "He's going to be amazed when he sees you," Pepper told her.

"He already is," she whispered, "but this'll make him speechless." She couldn't wait the last remaining days until her wedding. The night of the twenty-third came faster than either of them had expected. Tony, Clint, and Sam whisked Steve (and an unwillingly Bruce) off for a bachelor day, while she was stuck with Pepper, Laura and Betty getting mani-pedis, facials and full body massages. She wouldn't see Steve until tomorrow afternoon when she walked down the aisle. Despite this, she felt at ease, calm and relaxed. She was marrying for love this time, not because the Red Room and KGB told her too. She was building a future with a man she adored and who adored her in turn. It was everything she ever dreamed of when it came to her wedding; the small little girl from the poor end of Volgograd finally having a wish come true. If she could go back in time and tell her younger self that this moment would happen, that all the pain and suffering she would endure would lead to this moment, she would.

She stood in the foray of the church on the afternoon of December 24th, 2015 and her nerves finally hit her. She paced around in circles, her veil fluttering behind her as she tried to find her center. Betty was standing in a corner, holding the bouquet of snow white lilies in her hand. "It's going to be okay, Natasha," Betty said in a calm soothing voice. "You love him, and he loves you."

"I know but… I'm getting _married_ ," she said, looking at Betty. The other woman wore a form fitting silver dress, with a dark red ribbon tied around her waist. She liked the bridesmaid dresses Pepper had picked out. She groaned, pacing. "I feel like I'm going throw up." She pressed a hand to her stomach; she had been unable to eat all day, too nervous to think about food.

"Are you pregnant? Is it morning sickness?" Betty asked. She shook her head. Another knock on the door sounded and a second later Pepper slipped in. She wore a dress identical to Betty's, but her ribbon was gold instead of red. "She feels like she's going to throw up."

"It's okay, Tasha," Pepper said, putting her hands on her shoulders. She looked at Pepper, feeling herself shake. "Everything's ready, you love Steve, he loves you. You'll have a long and happy life together." Pepper grinned. "He's up there at the altar, so handsome and so nervous."

"I don't think I can do this," she whispered, feeling tears well up in her eyes. Pepper shushed her. "What if he changes his mind or… or… or…"

"Relax," Pepper said. "He won't. This is Steve Rogers we're talking about. Stubborn as a mule. He wants this, he wants to be your husband. You got this."

She nodded. "I got this," she said, giving Pepper a smile, she smiled at Betty too. The door opened again, and Clint came in, dressed in a tux. "Hey," she said. Clint swallowed, looking her up and down.

"Wow, Nat… you look… you look stunning," he said. "We're all ready. Betty, Pepper, go on ahead, I'll bring Nat out once the music starts."

"Right," Pepper said and tugged Betty along. Betty handed her the lilies and she stared at the flowers. Clint took her hands and she looked at him, feeling lost and nervous and scared. He smiled at her.

"Jesus, Nat, I… I'm happy for you," he said, his voice soft. "That day I rescued you… I never thought I'd get to see you grow so much. You went from a cold heartless assassin to someone with so much warmth and love in their heart. A good person that wants to help people. And you found love. I never thought I'd get to see this day. I'm so happy for you, Natasha."

"Clint…" she licked her lips bowing her head. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for everything."

"You're welcome," he said and pressed a kiss to her forehead before lowering her veil. "Ready?"

"Yes," she said, slipping her arm into his as they faced the door. The organ began to play the Bridal March as the doors swung open. She spared Clint one glance and they walked down the aisle. The church was decorated with boughs of evergreen and holly, big gold ribbons and poinsettias. The church's organ played deep and solemn as she walked towards the altar where Steve was waiting in his Army dress blues. She never seen him look so handsome before. Pepper and Betty stood waiting for her, while at Steve's side stood Sam and Tony.

The music stopped when they reached the altar and Clint placed her hand in Steve's. "Take good care of her," Clint said, "she's a special one."

"I… I will," Steve mumbled, his blue eyes wet with emotion. She felt his hand tighten around her fingers. Clint kissed her cheek before going to sit next to Laura and his kids. She looked at Steve, smiling. "You… you're beautiful," he said.

"Not half bad yourself, soldier," she said, smiling. He nodded, and they turned to face the priest. She didn't listen to most of what the priest said, much of it religious and invoking God and the holiness of the marriage. She heard Steve gasp, and sigh at many points and she looked over at him. Tears of joy leaking from his eyes and rolling down his cheeks, she felt the same way, but she had mastered the physical response to her emotions long ago; she squeezed his hand, smiling at him when he looked at her. It felt like forever before the final part came, the vows.

"Do you, Steven Grant Rogers, take Natasha Romanoff to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part?" the priest asked. The church fell silent, all eyes on Steve, all holding their breath.

"I…" he swallowed, wiping at his eyes. "I…" he tried again but was too overcome with joy to get the words out so he nodded instead, a large smile on his face. Sam handed him the ring and, with a shaking hand he slipped the delicate band of metal onto her finger. She looked at it, smiling at how it sparkled next to her engagement ring. The priest gave a soft chuckle before fixing his kind warm eyes on her.

"Do you, Natasha Romanoff, take Steven Grant Rogers to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part?" the priest asked. She looked at Steve and smiled. This was it. Once she gave her answer it was over. Pepper handed her the ring.

"I do," she said, slipping the ring onto Steve's hand. Her eyes stung with tears and her cheeks hurt from smiling. Steve's lip trembled, and he jabbed his teeth into it to keep from crying.

"By the power vested in me from God, Our Creator, and the State of New York, I now pronounce you man and wife," the priest said and gave Steve a knowing smile, "you may now kiss the bride."

She grinned when Steve lifted her veil, anticipation making her nervous. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," he whispered, and she giggled. He cupped her cheek and kissed her. They kissed before, but none had been like this. This kiss felt new and different, familiar but alien. It was their first kiss as husband and wife; she never felt happier or more complete. The applause from their friends was a dull murmur at the edge of her hearing. They pulled apart and the choir began to sing as she looped her arm through Steve's. They walked down the aisle, smiling at everyone. Tony had a limo waiting for them to take them back to the Tower where the party was being held.

They were almost to the large oak doors when Fury stepped in front of them, Hill behind him. "Congratulations, Captain, Agent," he said. She smiled at Steve and looked at her mentor. "Never seen a more beautiful ceremony. I wish you both love and happiness."

"Thank you, sir," Steve said, his voice was stronger though there was still that slight tremor of emotion in it. "Glad you could come."

"Yes, thank you," she said.

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world," Fury said. "Speaking of which, my gift to you two is not really a gift." He and Hill stepped aside to reveal the last person, she ever expected at her wedding (or any place in general).

Dressed in a charcoal suit, his long hair pulled into a tail at his nape was Bucky Barnes. His blue eyes clear and she could tell he was in possession of his mind. She shot a look at Fury, arching her brow and wondering how long Fury had known about Barnes and just how exactly this entire thing happened.

"Bucky?" Steve forced out, his hand squeezing her fingers so tight she feared she may have a few broken bones. "Bucky, is… is… is it really you?" Steve asked, his tears starting anew. She swallowed, hoping that this was real. She didn't want to see Steve's hopes dashed again, especially on today of all days.

"Yeah, punk," Bucky said, his voice soft and thick with emotion. "It's me." Steve hugged him, sobbing into his shoulder. "What? Did you really think I'd miss you tying the knot?" he asked, Steve just cried harder. It was a few moments before he pulled away and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close.

"Merry Christmas," Fury said, "and once again, congratulations." He turned and left. Hill congratulated them as well before following her boss out of the church. Natasha looked at Steve, smiling at him and then at Bucky, who stood (a bit awkward) to the side with a happy smile on his face.

"We better get to the car," she whispered, and Steve jerked out of his dazed state and nodded. He hugged Bucky again, promising to talk to him more once they got to the party and lead her out to the car. Everyone was waiting at the steps. She looked at Steve and grinned. Their friends cheered, throwing rice at them as they trotted to the car, where Happy held the door open for them. She grinned and tossed her bouquet, gathered her skirts and wedged herself into the car, Steve beside her.

"I can't believe it," he said, "getting married, Bucky's back… I…"

"Best day of your life?" she asked, grinning and wiping her eyes. The car began to move, pulling into traffic.

"Yeah." He swallowed and kissed her again, with a bit more passion that he had at the altar. "Merry Christmas and Happy day before your birthday, Mrs. Rogers."

She laughed, smiling against his lips. "Merry Christmas, Captain Rogers."

* * *

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 **Nemo et Nihil**


	20. Keepsake V

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

It was silent, save for the sound of their feet hitting the pavement, the swish-swish of their nylon jogging outfits and the pants of their breathing; white puffs before their faces. Dawn was breaking in the east, illuminating the picture-perfect houses in their neat little rows. Big houses, small houses, some with the pagoda style roofs indicative of East Asia, others stalwart and Victorian in their haughty air, others chic and modern reflecting a stereotypical view of American suburban life. Cars parked out in the driveways, SUVs and trucks. Sometimes they saw people going to work, in the distance the school bus rumbled as it picked up children for school. Sometimes a dog would bark as they passed but they didn't mind.

He glanced over at Natasha, who was keeping pace with him. He didn't know when she started joining him on his morning runs, probably when they started living together he thinks, but it felt as if they had always done it. Granted, he matched pace with her, not wanting to leave her behind; but they still ran a few miles every morning. It was nice running through their new neighbourhood, it helped both of them memorize the streets and how to get back to their little cul-de-sac. And now, since it was December, their neighbourhood took on a festive feel.

They rounded the corner, their house appearing at the apex of the cul-de-sac. It was also the only house not decorated for Christmas. He looked down at his wife (he still got a little thrill when calling Nat that) when she nudged him. "Yeah?" he gasped out.

"Race ya home?" she asked, the competitive glint in her eyes. He smirked. "Unless you're too tired. I mean, you _are_ an old man." She smirked, it was the same smirk he fell in love with and it still set of flutters in his stomach.

"I'm an old man, huh?" he asked, he glanced around to make sure nobody would be out and catch a glimpse of them. While Natasha could run faster than normal, he could do a mile in a minute flat (if he pushed himself). Nobody was out, nobody peeking through the windows; it was safe for him to let his strength go and show off a bit (plus he's pretty sure Natasha gets a thrill at how truly strong and fast her is). "Can an old man do this?" he asked, and his speed picked up his pace, tearing off ahead of her.

"Hey, that's not fair Rogers!" she shouted, picking up speed, but they both knew she would never catch him. He laughed, his feet pounding the pavement as their house grew large and large with each step. His heart hammered in his chest and his lungs took in great gulps of the icy December air. His cheeks flushed and his eyes bright, he felt light and happy and he reached their house first (as he knew he would). He waited for Natasha, arms over his head as he paced in their front yard. She ran up to him, gasping and her face flushed and hair messy, a few strands sticking to her face. "Cheat." She grinned though and walked up to him.

"I win," he said, cocking his head to the side. He pulled her close, his hands on her hips as her arms slipped around his neck. She leaned against him, forcing him to support most of her weight. He kissed her. "Wanna take a shower?" he husked, hands running up her sides. He loved her running outfit, it almost showed off her curves better than her Black Widow catsuit. "Then I'll make bacon and pancakes. And we can get started on unpacking some of the boxes we haven't gotten to and—"

"Hi!" a woman drawled in that high-pitched annoying way that nosey people tended to have. He and Natasha composed themselves, putting a bit of distance between them. He hoped the woman didn't see them run. He didn't need everyone knowing that Captain American and Black Widow lived here.

"Uh, hi," he said, giving the woman a smile. She wore a loud Christmas sweater and jeans, slippers on her feet. "Is there… something we can help you with?" he slipped an arm around Natasha's waist, pulling her close. They had yet to meet their neighbours and if he was honest that was fine with him. It was better if nobody knew them too well. "Nice day, huh?"

"Bit nippy, but whaddya expect, it's December!" the neighbour woman said, giving a loud forced laugh. He glanced at Natasha, a smile on his face. His wife flashed a small one but kept her face neutral for most of it. "So, you two must be used to running in this cold, huh?"

"Well, running warms you up, so we don't notice it after a bit," he said. He slipped his fingers beneath Natasha's track suit, feeling her warm skin. She cleared her throat and he backed off. "So—"

"Where are my manners, considering I haven't seen you two around before. Didja just move?" she asked. "I'm Ginger Valentini," she said. "I'm head of the PTA and I organize the neighbourhood functions and I'm chair on the Neighbourhood Christmas Block Festival." She offered her hand to him and he took it, shaking it.

"Steve and Natasha Rogers," he said, "I teach at West Point and my wife's in intelligence and security." He dropped the woman's hand and beamed at Natasha, unable to keep the pride from his face or gaze. Ginger laughed.

"Never would have guessed. She seems more apt to teach though," she said, "dainty and all that." She waved a dismissive hand at Natasha. He bristled, not liking the sugar-coated insult. Natasha gave Ginger her blithe disarming smile.

"Well," his wife said, "you know what they say: Great things come in small packages. And never judge a book by its cover."

Ginger nodded. "Of course, of course. Can't judge anything by their outward appearance. I had four kids, yet I can still fit into a size two dress." She winked at Steve. "My husband's happy about that. Though he's let himself go." She pursed her lips together. "Not like your husband, eh, Natty? Can I call you Natty?"

"Natasha, please," Natasha said, her voice clipped. "And I'm sure your husband isn't that bad looking, I mean you're still with him." Natasha shrugged. Ginger gave another high pitched fake laugh, slapping her thigh.

"She's a hoot, ain't she?" she beamed at him. "I mean, Henry is not ugly — Henry's my husband," she said. He and Natasha nodded. "But he's nothing like your husband." She looked him up and down. Steve swallowed, feeling a bit nervous. Natasha gave a little growl in the back of her throat.

"Yeah," she said, all smiles and good cheer. "He's something special." She looked up at him and he bent his head to give her a peck on the lips. "Is there something you need Ginger? I'm sure you don't want to keep your kids waiting."

"Oh," Ginger said, sounding surprised. "I just want to tell you that your house is a little lacking in Christmas cheer." She gave a little clap, her smile big and fake. "So, as soon as you can, why dontcha bust out those Christmas decorations! This year's theme is reindeer." She followed that up with a soft yay. He arched a brow, looking between the two women. "And on Christmas Eve will announce the best lit house." She preened, though tried to act modest. "I've won the last three years and I expect to hold onto my title." She winked at him, a hungry look in her eyes. He pulled Natasha closer to him. "Well, Happy Holidays. Hope to see your house decked out soon!" she waved at them and headed back to her house. They stood on their door step, watching Ginger enter her house. Natasha pulled away from him and went inside.

"Nat?" he called, going after her. He kicked the door close. "Nat, honey?" he kicked his shoes off and pressed the thermostat to get some heat in the house. He went into the kitchen and sure enough, he found his wife with a pair of binoculars and perched on the top of the back of the chair. "Nat?"

She looked at him, fury on her face and went back to spying on their neighbour. "I don't like her, Steve."

"I don't like her either." She didn't look away. He sighed and came up behind her, pushing away her sweaty ponytail to kiss her neck. "Steve."

"Nat, don't. We're normal here. Just a nice young couple in a nice neighbourhood. Nothing different or strange." He kissed her neck again. "We can still shower and make breakfast." She turned to look at him and his breath caught. He could never fathomed how he got to this point, got this beautiful and extraordinary woman to be his wife, but he thanked his lucky stars and God every day for the gift he was given.

"A nice long shower?" she asked, arching a brow. He smirked.

"A nice long hot shower, and we can even take our time getting dressed," he said, his voice soft and husky. He drew a line down the curve of her spine. "I'll even draw you like in that one movie. Like those French girls."

"You never drew a French girl," she said, sliding into the seat and into his arms. "At least not in that context." She kissed him, and he gave in, letting her hands wander over his chest and down his belly. He pulled away panting a little, his face flushed again.

"I wouldn't mind drawing you like that though." He smirked, tracing her jaw. He never thought he'd ever feel this happy, this peaceful. He always defended the American dream, but now he could taste it and hold it in his hands. He was still trying to figure out how to balance this new found domestic bliss with defending the world, with being an Avenger. It was a learning curve, but he was a quick learner. He would say he was sleeping better, less nightmares and he had more buoyant days. Bruce had said he had figured out how to manage his PTSD; having Natasha around to talk about his demons and in turn listen to her own blood-soaked past helped. "Naked and splayed out for me." He chuckled. "Don't think I'd finish though. Give up, cause, I'd be imagining my fingers on your perfect skin as I sketched."

"Why don't you take me upstairs and run your fingers over my perfect skin?" she said, her voice soft and each word coated with desire. He smirked, scooping her up. She laughed, and it was like the sound of angels to his ears. He kissed her and wondered how he'd ever tell her how much she meant to him or if she already knew.

* * *

They made love in the shower and on their bed. Touched and teased each other as they made breakfast and as they ate it too. The morning bled away as they went about unpacking and setting up the Christmas decorations. Their house was still too big and spacious, feeling empty and unlived in. Nat told him not to worry, that she'll go with the girls and look and some furniture later this week. Still, getting the Christmas village up and their other Christmas knickknacks and the Christmas lights chased away most of the drabbed unlived in feeling of their house.

He came back from the attic, ready for a fresh load of boxes. "Load 'em up," he said, grinning. She laughed and stacked some boxes in his arms. She picked up the last box, it was small and the label was in Russian. "What does it say?" he asked, never seeing this box before. She bit her lip, her thumbs running along the edges of the box. "Nat?"

"Nothing," she said and set the small box on top. "That should be it." She smiled. "Got it?"

"Uh-huh." He turned around and headed to the stairs. "We still going to dinner with Pepper and Tony?" he asked as he climbed the stairs. He glanced at the few pictures on the wall. A group photo of the Avengers. Their wedding picture, pictures from their road trip this past summer. He hoped to have this wall covered with pictures of their lives. "Nat?" he called.

"Yeah, yeah, we are," she said, her voice distant as he reached the top of the stairs.

He grunted his reply and climbed the hidden steps into the attic that he left down. He blinked a few times and then found a spot for them and set them down, nudging them closer to the other boxes with his foot. Curiosity got the better of him, glancing around to make sure Natasha wouldn't appear, he opened the small box with the Russian label. His eyes widened at the sight. A collection of baby things rested inside. Some cute little onesies with his shield emblem and her Window mark and the Avengers' A. Other onesies with zoo animals and fishes; baby shoes and baby socks for a boy or girl. A gel teething ring and a rattle. A soft lilac blanket with satin edges, a pink giraffe plush and a blue elephant plush. He dug through it and found a scrapbook for a baby' first five years of life, another blanket with lambs and ducklings and bit worn at the edges. A small box held two porcelain jars for first lock of cut hair and first lost tooth. He put everything back in the box and stared at it as if it was some enemy trap.

They never spoke about children. The only time anything related to children came up was when they first started sleeping together and he worried about STDs and unplanned pregnancies. Natasha had assured him she was clean and that she was unable to get pregnant (he had told her he didn't mind the inability to conceive, that she was perfect regardless). Since then, they never spoke of children or having them. He was okay with it, he had given up on children a long time ago, back before the ice. He didn't want to inflict his multitude of illnesses upon an innocent child, so when he was still small and skinny, he had resigned himself to the fact that children just weren't in his future. His thoughts had changed little since receiving the serum and waking up in the 21st Century and marrying Natasha. He figured that she was okay with being one of those childless couples. Seeing the box, knowing her desire, he wished he had said something sooner.

She was always excited to see Cooper and Lila. She was a great aunt, interactive and playful, spoiling them but not to the point they became rotten. She even encouraged Lila and Cooper to call him Uncle Steve. He just passed it off as her wanting to be a part of the lives of Clint's children, but he should've known better. She would look in the direction of a crying baby or child, watch pregnant women a bit longer than normal and sigh with melancholic wistfulness whenever they passed the baby section while shopping. "Steve?"

He jerked, turning around and standing in front of the boxes, hoping she didn't noticed that he looked through the box with her collected baby items. "Hey, just putting the boxes away." He smiled and walked towards her. The shadows and the light behind her made her expression difficult to read, but he hoped she bought his fib.

"You've always been a terrible liar," she said, a teasing note in her voice as she strolled passed him to the boxes. He swallowed, his fingers twitching to grab her, but he refrained. He heard her suck in a breath when she noticed the box containing the baby items had been opened. The attic felt cold all the sudden; he hung his head. "Did you open this?" her voice was soft, dangerous. He could hear the hurt in her tone. "Did you open this Steve?" she asked.

He felt wretched and his heart ached for her. "Nat, I—"

"Did you open this, yes or no?" she snapped, her cheeks flushed with anger that stemmed from betrayal. He nodded and flinched when she kicked some nearby boxes.

"Nat—"

"How could you?" she asked. "How could you open that and… and… betray my trust like that?" she glowered at him and he had never seen her so angry at him before. He felt horrible and wished he could turn back time and never look in the box.

"Natasha, please… I…" he stopped, taking a few steps towards her. "I didn't know what was in it and… I'm sorry I looked but" — he licked his lips — "why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Because it'll never happen," she said, taking a step away from him. The rejection hurt, and he failed at hiding it. "It'll never happen Steve. I told you when we started sleeping together, I can't get pregnant. That was two years ago." She looked away, eyes falling to the box. He watched her trace the edge almost as if she was lamenting the fact she could never have children. "You married a broken woman."

"Nat." He closed the gap between them and wrapped her in his arms. "You aren't broken." He kissed her head and scooped her up bridal style. "You aren't broken. You're perfect, just the way you are and I love you." He took her out of the attic, giving the string a tug, the gears creaked as it sprung back up into place. He looked down at his wife, her eyes shiny with unshed tears and guilt and sorrow coiled about his gut. He took her to their room, laying her on the bed and cuddled her. He listened to her cry into his chest smoothing her hair and murmuring sweet little words to her. She hiccupped, and her shoulders stilled. Sighing, he pulled her close, holding her tight, letting the realization of the deep-seated desire wash over him.

"It was a shrine," she whispered. "I would buy things I found, and thought were cute. Just little things and kept them in a box." She nuzzled his chest and he tightened his embraced. "Sometimes I would look at them and imagine my baby wearing the clothes and playing with the toys and" — she swallowed — "and I'd cry for the child that would never be born."

"Oh, Natasha," he whispered and pressed a kiss to her brow. "I'm sorry, I wish—" his phone rang, vibrating against the nightstand by his side of the bed. He frowned, rolling onto his back to answer it. "Hello?" he asked. He frowned. "Sharon? Yeah… hey, I'm doing good… yeah… uh-huh, thanks. I'm happy too… yeah, Nat's the best. So uh, why are you calling?" he asked, his brows furrowing and then he went limp as if all the fight had been taken out of him. "N-No… Of course, Sharon. I'll come. If that's what she wants. I'll come. I'll see her. She… she was with me at the end and… tell her I'll be there tomorrow. Thanks. You too, take care." He hung up.

God had a sick sense of humor, if God had a sense of humor. He sat up and pulled his hand down along his face. It hurt. Opening old wounds he thought had scabbed over and healed. He felt numb, like when he woke up still half frozen in the ice, disorientated and listening to people mutter about how best to harvest his organs and take samples of his DNA as if he was no better than a lab rat and then expressing surprise when they found out he was still alive. It wasn't fair that this happened to him, that this was his life. "Steve?" Natasha's voice pulled him out of his musing, his eyes wet. "Steve, what's wrong?"

"Peggy's not gonna last much longer. She wants t-to see me… one last time." He squeezed her hand. "Told Sharon, I'll be there tomorrow."

Natasha nodded and kissed his cheek. "I'll call Tony, ask to borrow his jet and pack us some bags." She stood up, grabbing her phone to go make the call. Once she was out of the room, he sat up and buried his face in his hands and cried for all that he lost.

* * *

Maybe it was cruel or maybe it was the living's way of helping the dying come to terms with the inevitable. Yet, the Christmas decorations with their warmth and good cheer and bright gay colors seemed ironic in an almost benign maliciousness. They clashed with the drab neutral beiges and greys of the nursing home; soft scents of pine and warm spices did nothing to conceal the scent of death, of dying. The machines around Peggy's bed beeped, constant and steady. So long as they beeped she was alive, and so long as she was alive he had time. He sat there, holding her frail gnarl hand. So different from what he remembered: strong supple fingers with the faintest hint of gunpowder that mingled with her perfume, creating an odd pleasant scent he enjoyed. Chocolate curls that cascaded around her heart shaped face. Those bright red lips that hypnotized him. Bold and feminine; she looked at him with curiosity and stirred something deep within him for the first time.

O, how far away those bygone days were when life was simpler, when the enemy was clear as the red armbands they wore on their uniforms. When disillusioned men went off into the mountains to rave and die, removed from the world. When he felt like he had his entire life stretched out before him, a woman who loved him and a best friend at his side. Peggy was no longer the woman he remembered, and he wondered if he was one of those disillusioned men that should wander off into the mountains to rave and die, and Bucky… he hadn't seen Bucky in seven months, not since his birthday in July. He brushed a lock of white hair from Peggy's brow. Her eyes sharp and bright, at least she was lucid. Weak as she was, she was still a stubborn woman and still had some fight left in her. At least he didn't have to explain to her that he was still alive. He didn't think he could bare it today. "You seemed troubled," she whispered, her thumb stroking his knuckles. "Talk to me."

"I'm losing you again. I'm losing you and… it feels like I just got you back," he said, squeezing her hand, mindful of her frail fingers and his strength. "We never got our dance, I was late, and we never got our dance."

"Steve," she said, reaching to cup his face with her other hand. He leaned towards her, closing his eyes at her touch. The machines continued to beep in the background, she was still alive even though he could see the life leaving her, bit by bit, bleeding away into the aether. He wanted to grab the wispy threads of her life and return it to her, just so he could have more time with her. "You knew this day would come, we all die." She patted his cheek. "We lose loved ones, we mourn and move on. It hurts but sometimes the only way forward is to start over."

"I know," he said and sat up straighter, holding both of her hands. "I know, it's just the unfairness—" he shook his head. "Sharon tell you I got married last Christmas?" he asked. Peggy nodded, and he couldn't help but smile. "Natasha's a swell girl, I love her" — he allowed himself to smile — "she makes me happy Peggy, real happy. I feel… at home with her."

Peggy sighed, closing her eyes. The machines continued to beep, continued to monitor what little life she had left. "I'm glad Steve," she said, her voice reedy and tired, "I'm happy you're finally getting to live your life."

He snorted, a bitter wry smile on his face. "Still don't know what the right thing is, still don't know if I can be a good husband and settle down, build a family with Natasha." He let go of her hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Nat and I… I don't think we can do it with both of us being Avengers."

She hummed. "You'll figure it out," she said, "things like this… they have a way of working themselves out. Give it time, don't force it."

"She wants children, Peggy," he said, "we never even discussed children. I always thought it was a moot point considering she's… she can't have children because of what the Red Room did to her."

Peggy was silent for several long moments. "The Red Room is a horrible place. Turned perfectly good girls into monsters and killed the ones that weren't willing to become monsters in order to survive." Peggy glared at nothing. "We had a tough time dealing with them during the Cold War." She shook her head. "You'd make a good father; you're a good man. Good men make good fathers." She patted his hand. "Only if it's something you want."

The last statement froze him. He furrowed his brow, a frown creasing his lips. Did he want children? He was healthy, Dr. Erskine said that the serum affected all his cells, so it was possible that it affected his sperm too… right? If so, his child would never face all illnesses he endured as a child. He sighed, shoulders shuddering as he let out the breath he didn't know he was holding. It didn't seem right to be talking about having children with his dying former flame. "I gave up on having children, long before Project: Rebirth. Women looked at me like a bug they could step on, so why would any of them want children with me. Plus, why would I want to subject a child to all my illnesses." He gave a derisive snort. "Never thought I'd find a girl and settle down so, I was okay with it."

"And now?" she asked. He watched the monitors, watched her heartbeat. It was slowing, minute by minute. Time was slipping from his fingers and he could do nothing to hold onto the precious moments with her. "What about now?"

Maybe… maybe I do want children. "I don't know Peggy. Nat can't even have children and I… I don't — please don't go," he said, sniffing and trying to hold his tears at bay. She gave him a sad smile, the light fading from her eyes. He held both her hands, teeth jammed into his lower lip to keep it from quivering. He tried to stop thinking of his mother, coughing her way into death. How he held her hand, wiping her brow, even though he knew that it was risky considering his frail health. Now he watched Peggy die. "I loved you, Peggy. I never got to tell you back then, but I did… in a way I still do." He hung his head. "You must think I'm a weak man, holding onto a dying dream. A fading maybe."

"No, Steve, no I don't think that." Peggy shook her head weakly. "You aren't weak. You're human. A man too good for this world. You've witness the inhumanity of the human creature and somehow… you still remained a good man." She smiled at him, her love for him reflected in her eyes. "If you're a weak man, then I'm a pathetic old woman, because I've been holding onto the same dream as you."

"Peggy."

"Kiss me," she whispered. "Kiss me goodbye Steve." He blinked, staring at her and saw fear in her eyes. Fear of the end, of saying goodbye forever to all she loved and all she knew. "Promise me we'll get our dance?" she whispered as he leaned over her, smoothing her brow and thin white hair.

"I promise. We'll get our dance, after all this over Peg, we'll get our dance." He kissed her brow. "I swear it." He kissed her lips. He pulled away, the machines shrieking, the heart rate monitor a steady flat line. "Peggy?" he asked, shaking her shoulder. She rocked back and forth, limp as a discarded doll. "Oh Peggy." The tears came then, unbidden and folded his arms on the edge of her bed and cried. He didn't know how long he cried, but he looked up when he felt a hand rubbing his nape. It was Natasha. "She's gone," he whispered, wrapping his arms around his wife's waist. "She's gone."

"She valued the time she had with you," Natasha said. He nodded as he tugged her into his lap; holding her made him feel better. The nurses came in and turned off the monitors with a sense of methodic dispassion. They pulled the sheet up over Peggy's face and asked them to leave. He glared at them, not wanting to leave Peggy's side. "C'mon Steve, let's go the lobby and have some tea."

"I should've done more. Should've put something heavy on the controls to make sure the damn plane crashed… should've listened to Peggy and let her get Howard and…" he grumbled as they walked down the hall and into the lobby. He met Sharon's gaze and the other woman knew that it was over. "I should've figured out a way to save myself." Natasha pushed him into a chair and left his side to get some tea. He sat there, glaring at the table and berating himself for not doing more to prevent his freezing. It wasn't worth it. So, what if he saved the world? He lost his life for nothing, lost the woman he loved — Natasha pushed a Styrofoam cup into his hands — "I don't want tea." Zola had mocked him, saying his life and death amounted to a zero sum. He didn't think the computerized Hydra scientist was right at the time, but now he was beginning to wonder if Zola was right all along.

"Then just hold it," she said, putting her hand on his wrist. "I understand Steve." She licked her lips, unphased by the glare he gave her. "At least you got to be with her at the end. I… I never saw Alexi again. He got tangled up in the Red Room's web… and they killed him. My handler told me in my apartment. I had to pretend it didn't hurt" — she squeezed his wrist — "but it did. It hurt so much. My dear first husband. Dead because of me." He rested his hand over hers. She didn't talk much about Alexi. She had a picture of her and Alexi on her nightstand, a message on the photo in Russian. She told him once that Alexi was still surprised she even agreed to marry him. He remembered how she told him that he was the first man she had been intimate with upon her own volition since Alexi. "At least you got to say goodbye to her," Natasha said. "At least you got to say goodbye."

"I'm sorry Natasha," he said, looking up at his wife. "I really am." He wiped a tear from her cheek. She gave him a small smile and scooted her chair closer to his. "Does it get easier?"

"The ache dulls, becomes familiar, something you can ignore." She shook her head. "But it'll never go away. We have them when we have them, and we have to learn to live with that fact."

He nodded and sipped his tea, black with a bit of honey. She knew him well. It didn't feel real some days; the fact that he was alive, that he had survived the ice, that someone found him and rescued him. That everything happened the way it did. His mother always said God had a reason for doing things, even if we couldn't see it. He knew what He was doing, so we just had to trust in Him. He sipped some more at the tea, and took his wife's hand, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb. "You didn't have to come with me."

"Didn't want you to be alone" — she quirked a smile — "besides, I don't think Ginger would've been around much longer if I had stayed home."

"Natasha," he sighed and buried his face into her neck, drinking in her familiar scent of fresh linen. That's what her scentless soaps smelled like to him, fresh linen. "I don't like her either, but we need to play nice." He pressed a kiss to her neck.

"Nobody would realize it was me," she said, sounding innocent. He grunted. "I am Black Widow for a reason."

"Nat," he whined as he nuzzled her skin. She chuckled and patted his cheek. Lifting his head up a bit he noticed Sharon, her face pale and her eyes sad. "Sharon." The other woman gave him a little smile.

"The funeral will be held in London," Sharon said, her voice strong and steady, but he heard the tremor of grief behind her words. "We'd be honored if both of you attended."

He took another sip of tea, nodding. "Yeah," he said, his voice thick. "We'll be there." He looked at Sharon and tried to see Peggy in her but couldn't. Not now at least. He squeezed Natasha's hand. "Thanks for calling Sharon… I'm… I'm glad I got to be with her at the end."

Sharon nodded. "I'm sure she was too, Steve. You meant a lot to her, at least this time both of you got to say a proper goodbye."

"Yeah…" he finished the rest of his tea. "At least we got that," he said as he stood up. Natasha stood too, her arm going around his waist. "I'll see you again in London. When's the funeral?"

"Next Saturday. And I'm… I know this sucks considering Christmas is soon, but—"

He shook his head. "People die, Sharon. Only God knows the manner and the hour." He nuzzled Natasha's hair. "We'll be there, I promise." He gave Sharon a small smile, before turning to go, Natasha by his side. They walked out glued to each other's hip and to their rental car. The DC air was cold and crisp, it chilled him to the bone in a way that the wintry New York air never could. He sighed, leaning against the passenger side of the car and rested his forehead against the cool metal. Once again, he lost everything. He lost his friends, he lost his home, his life, the woman he loved. Adrift in an era that was uncanny and alien to him, yet beneath that there was this disconcerting sense of familiarity. A metallic tap jerked him out of his thoughts, Natasha's hand waving on the other side of the car.

"Keys, honey," she said. He sighed, digging into his pocket and tossing the keys over. He got in once she unlocked the door. Sighing, he buckled up and stared at the window as Natasha drove from the nursing home. The streets bled into one another. "Do you want to get something to eat?" she asked.

"Not hungry," he said, "just… Irunno." He rested his head on the glass. "I'm just tired." He watched the buildings bleed into one another; decorations adorn the lampposts and windows and doorframes. Window decorations declaring Christmas specials in bright red and white flashed by. He saw it but didn't process it. He kept remembering how DC looked back in the 40s, back when he did the war bonds tour. The city had changed so much since then. Natasha turned the radio on, and _Jingle Bell Rock_ bopped its way through the car. He frowned, turning it off and folding his arms over his chest. He heard his wife sigh, taking a left towards their hotel.

"We fly home tomorrow," she said, "pack a bit more than then fly to London the next day, sound good? I'm sure Sharon'll want you to help with the funeral planning."

He made a sound, but he didn't answer. He just wanted to be alone, so he could cry. The car slowed when it came to a red light. He watched the people walk along the sidewalk, arms loaded with bags that bulged with gifts for their loved ones. "You know," he said as the car started to pick up speed once the light turned green. "When I came outta the ice, I thought everyone I knew was gone." He rested his head against the seat's headrest, closing his eyes. "When I found out she was alive" — he gave a tight smile, swallowing his emotions — "I was just lucky to have her back." He lowered his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"She had you back too, Steve."

"You didn't have to come with me, Nat. You should've stayed home, decorated the house."

"I told you why I came." She reached over and took his hand. He stared at it, moonstruck by the gesture. "Look, we're here." She pulled into the parking lot of the hotel and parked the car, but didn't turn the engine off. He unbuckled from his seat and double checked that he had a key. "Steve?"

"You have your key?" he asked, rolling his shoulders to loosen them. He opened the door and the car began to ding. He frowned. "Nat?"

"Steve, you shouldn't—"

"Here," he pulled out fifty dollars and handed it to her. "Go get us some dinner. Don't really care. I'm going to take a shower." When she didn't take his money he shook the bill at her. "C'mon, honey."

She huffed, taking the fifty dollars and shoving it down her shirt. "Alright, I'll be back soon. Don't do anything stupid."

He snorted, a half smile appearing on his face. "You know me," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "When have I ever done anything stupid." He laughed when she cocked a brow.

She leaned over, and he met her half way to accept her kiss. "It's a good thing I love you," she said. He hummed, giving her a smile that didn't reach his eyes. She cupped his cheek. "I mean it."

"I know."

"Maybe when I get back we can talk about… the box," she said, mirroring his smile. He sighed, nodding and stood up straighter. "Go take a shower, make some tea. Relax, unwind. You need it."

"I'm in the mood for Chinese," he said. She shook his head. "Or maybe Thai. They have spicy peanut butter sauce. It's good."

"Alright soldier, I'll get you your spicy Thai chicken with peanut sauce," she said. He grinned and closed the door. He watched her drive off and sighed again, glancing up at the stormy grey clouds. He walked away from the hotel. There was no real destination in mind. He just needed to be alone. So he walked, letting his mind wander down the long corridors of his past, remembering the all he had lost. When the rain started, he didn't care despite the iciness of the drops. He passed a bar, looking at it. It was a little after five o'clock and people began to trickle in, the neon red sign declaring the establishment open. The rain got heavier and colder; he walked on.

He smashed the button for the crosswalk and blew on his hands, rubbing them together to warm them. He flexed his hands, working the blood back through them. Peggy once told him she liked his hands: big and strong with slender artist fingers. He traced the callouses on his palm, remembering how Peggy had once warmed his hands up for him during one of the bitterly cold winters in Europe. It was just before he lost Bucky, when they were closing in on Schmidt and Zola. Peggy had met him and Bucky outside after a reconnaissance mission they had completed. He gave her a condensed report and she took his hands between hers and rubbed his fingers and blew on them. He still remembered the little thrill he got when her lips brushed against his fingertips. It was a gentle tender thing, but intimate and if he had more gumption he may have even asked her to marry him right there, after the war was over. Bucky had snapped them out of their private moment, reminding them both that they needed to speak to Colonel Philips. Peggy dropped his hands and he remembered they felt colder as he walked after her.

"Walk sign on the crosswalk," the crosswalk said, jerking him back into the present. His hands were red from the cold; he tucked them into his armpits and trotted across the street, looking around to get his bearings. The freezing rain soaked his clothes as he walked back towards the hotel; he didn't care.

Shivering and dripping wet, he pulled the key card out of his wallet with numb fingers and tried to get it to work. The little light flashed red. He grumbled, trying again. It flashed red again. "Damn it," he said and tried a third time, but before he could the door opened.

"Steve," Natasha said, her eyes widening. He knew he looked wretched, he caught a glimpse of himself in the shiny steel doors of the elevator. He flinched when she put her warm hands on his cold neck. "Shit, honey, you're freezing." She tugged him inside, closing the door with a heavy thump. He looked around the hotel. It was Spartan in appearance yet the staff tried to disguise this fact with piles of fluffy towels and little soaps and shampoo bottles. The paintings hanging over the bed seemed to be lifeless and cold, devoid of the emotion and passion typical of art. He shivered, wiping the water from his nose. "I thought… what did you do? Take a walk?"

"Yeah."

"I was worried about you," she said, "I came back and the room was empty. I was about to call you." He sighed, peeling off his coat and hanging it up on the rack. "I wonder if the they have a dryer I can use to dry it a bit."

"It'll be fine," he said and shivered some more. He hated being cold, but at least being cold was feeling something. At least being cold was different from being sad. "Did you bring Thai food?"

"You need to shower first, Steve," she said, reaching to unbutton his shirt. He stilled her hands. "Your hands are cold and clammy. Shower and warm up first. Then we can eat." She offered him a smile.

"Okay," he mumbled, pulling away and going to grab his pajamas from his suitcase. He offered a small smile to her as he tucked his pajamas and toilet tree under his arm and went into the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and looked around at the pristine bathroom, with its gleaming white tile and spotless bathtub. Grumbling, he peeled off his wet clothes — shivering more whenever the air met his icy skin — and turned the water on. It was tempting to take a cold shower, but instead he turned it to hot and got in, hissing at the rapid change of temperature. He stood beneath the hot stream of water, letting it beat against his skin and hide his tears. Shuddering through a sob, he got himself under control enough to wash his body and hair. The shower helped him to detach, drift endlessly in his sea of grief. He had nobody left from his original time, everyone he knew was gone.

One could argue he still had Bucky, but it felt like he didn't. He had seen Bucky off and on since his wedding last Christmas, but it didn't feel like he had his best friend back. Bucky was darker, broodier, and prone to staring off into the silence. Sometimes he and Natasha would speak together in Russian, but he didn't know about what. He worried tha Bucky may be attempting to strike up the romance they used to have, but Natasha assured him that was further from the truth. Still, to know that his best friend and his wife had lived a life together without him… hurt. He shut the water off and glared at his hands, noting the dark tungsten band on his left ring finger. It all felt like a sham, a ruse used to beguile and pacify him. He slapped his hand against the wall, mindful of his strength only moments before his hand met the wall. The pain, the pain felt too much, it hurt. It was difficult to breath, the air becoming thick and viscous and cold, so damn cold. The light faded as he sank deeper, the cold vicious and seeping as it coiled around his flesh and bones, solidifying his blood and blackness encroaching on his vision. He didn't get to hear if Peggy agreed to have the band play something slow, so he wouldn't step on her feet. He didn't want to step on her feet during their first dance. He needed air; he couldn't hold his breath much longer but swimming to the surface felt like an impossible task. The radio grabbled beneath the water, someone was calling his name he wanted to answer but if he opened his mouth he'd drown.

Hands, delicate and slender trailed over his body, a woman — it wasn't Peggy — called his name and he found he could breathe again, that there was no freezing water and he was perfectly fine in the hotel's tub. "Steve, honey, are you alright?" Natasha asked as her face came into focus. He looked around, dazed, trying to remember what happened. He was taking a shower, he finished and then— "I heard a thump and I came in. You must've slipped in the tub."

"I… I did?" he sat up, the tub squeaking as he did so. "I never fall," he said, he had great balance. Natasha gave him a little smile, as if to say it was okay, everyone falls down. She grabbed a towel and began to dry his hair. He let her, resting his head against the wall and closed his eyes. "I… I was thinking about" —he swallowed the lump in his throat — "it was so cold. I was… I was scared, Nat. You have no idea what it's like to realize you're dying but can do nothing to save yourself" — he bowed his head, a rueful snort escaping him — "only I didn't die. I froze and was found seventy years later."

"Steve."

"What am I doing here, Nat? I feel… gutted. Empty. I don't know my purpose anymore. Back during the war, it was easy: fight Nazis, take down Hydra." He shook his head. "Now I don't know anymore." She tugged at his arm and he stood up at her instance, so she could continue to dry him. He stepped out of the tub and put on his pajamas as she handed them to him. He mulled over his thoughts, trying to figure out how to best explain to her what he was felling. I miss her. I miss Peggy. He closed his eyes, following his wife out of the bathroom and to the small table where their cooling Thai food was waiting for them.

"I understand, Steve," she said, popping open the Styrofoam container. "Eat. You'll feel better."

"I don't think I can Natasha."

She pulled her chair over to him and took his hand. "Steve, talk to me." He looked at her, seeing nothing but love and concern in her green eyes. "Don't keep it all bottled up, I know it hurts. I do."

"I…" he swallowed down the urge to cry. "I miss her, Nat. I miss her so much and… it hurts."

"I know, honey, I know." She rubbed his arm. "Let it out and you'll feel better."

A shuddering sigh escaped him, the urge to cry was getting stronger and he wanted to give in, to cry and let everything out, to expose his pain to the purifying air. "I can't.'

"Steve," she said, cupping his face, forcing him to look at her. "It's okay to cry. You just lost someone you loved, you watched them die. It's okay to cry."

He broke. Pulling her into his lap, he hid his face into her neck and let out great wracking sobs that shook his entire body. He cried for himself, he cried for Peggy, he cried for Bucky and for Natasha. All the ten thousand injustices of the world, he cried for those too and he cried because this was the only way to get everything he was feeling off his chest. Five long years of being out of the ice and trying to catch up with seventy years of everything. The difficulty and the unfairness of it all. And Natasha held him through the maelstrom of his sorrow; she was the rock he held onto during the raging storm, the anchor in this sea of grief. Like all storms, this too passed after a while. He didn't know how long, all he knew was that when he allowed the tension to seep away from his body and he opened his eyes, he saw Natasha and it was sunlight bursting forth from the clouds after a storm. "I love you," he said, his voice soft and horse. She smiled at kissed him and he just held her.

* * *

They flew to London two days after Peggy died. He met her children and grandchildren, and much to his delight they accepted him, glad to finally have a face to put to the man their mother and grandmother spoke about so highly. He agreed to a pallbearer and the day of the funeral, he was at the head of the coffin, carrying his beloved Peggy to her final resting place, the British flag wrapping her coffin. Bucky — much to his surprise — was also there. He said Fury had heard and gave him leave to spend this time with friends and family. Plus, it was Christmas. So he sat between his wife and best friend, feeling connected to both times of his life.

They didn't stay in London long after the funeral. A day or two, before flying back to New York. After everything that happened in the past two weeks, he had Natasha had no time to decorate for Christmas (a fact that Ginger reminded them of when they got back). Truth be told he didn't feel like decorating much. It was nice having Bucky for the holidays but he found himself struggling to get up in the morning, his sleep plagued by nightmares and all he wanted to do was lock himself in his studio and stare at the old drawings he did of Peggy (apparently, a few of his old wartime sketchbooks survived, it was a part of the things that Fury gave back to him after the Battle of New York).

It was the day before Christmas Eve (Tony had jokingly texted him _Merry Christmas Eve Eve_ that morning), Natasha had insisted he and Bucky get out of the house and do something. They had yet to get a tree, so that was what they decided to do today. It was starting to snow when they got to the tree farm. It was picked over, but the worker assured them that if they head up farther into the more remote regions of the farm there are still some nice trees left. They hopped onto the hay ride and rode it up the winding path of the large hill to the upper region of the farm and began their hunt.

"We haven't done this in years," Bucky said as he looked at a tree. Steve nodded, a small smile on his face. "Last time we did this, you had been skinny."

"Last time we did do this, I was skinny," he countered, and then laughed. It was good to laugh with Bucky. It was good to be doing this, to remember how to have fun and to smile. He had lost too many people, seen too much death. He couldn't let it overshadow him. "Still insisting I could carry the tree by myself."

"Well now you can," he said, a dopey grin on his face. He shook his head. "You and Nat string popcorn still?"

"No, we have ornaments."

"Steve, what's Christmas tree without strings of popcorn. We're doing popcorn," Bucky said. Steve rolled his eyes. "What about this tree?" he asked. It was a nice Douglas Fir, a bit taller than Steve, full and bushy. He took a deep breath and sighed. The cold air of winter, the cleanness of the mountains and that pine scent he always associated with Christmas.

"It's a good tree, Buck," he said. He got down on his knees, ready to cut it down when Bucky let out a groan. "What?"

"Has this stupid little orange tag on it?" he heard his friend say. Grumbling, he got back to his feet to look at it. "What does it mean?"

"I think we're about to cut down someone else's tree." He sighed, looking at the perfect Christmas tree. He was already attached to it, imagining hanging the decorations he and Nat had on its branches, snuggling up with on the couch to admire how beautiful their tree was. It hurt that someone had already picked this tree. "Let's find another."

"We can just take the tag off," Bucky said, flicking the orange tag. "Nobody would know and besides, these people said they'd be here last week to pick up their tree."

"Bucky no."

"Why not? We won't be able to find a nicer tree, all I have to do is yank it off and shove it into my pocket. You cut it down, we pay for the tree and we go home." Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets. "All you have to do is keep your mouth shut because you can't lie to save your life."

"Buck, they may come. They're probably just busy. Let's fine another tree," he said and began walking towards the other trees. He could already tell that the other trees weren't as nice, weren't as perfect. "It doesn't need to be perfect."

"Jesus Christ, Steve" — Bucky trudged after him — "nobody is gonna know. It's not like they have security cameras in the ground." He arched a brow at his friend. "What? I checked. Habit."

A giggle stopped them, and they turned to see a boy and a girl. The girl was taller than the boy by a head and they shared enough similarities that they could be siblings. "Whatcha doin'?" the girl asked, rocking on the balls of her feet with her hands behind her back.

"Christmas tree huntin' kid," he said. "Right Buck?"

"Buck? That's a funny," the boy said. "Are you a deer? Where are your horns?"

"It's a nickname," Bucky said and crouched down, gathering snow in his hands. "And deer have antlers, not horns." He made a snowball. "What are you doing here?"

"Lookin' for the enemy," the boy said, way too happy about that. "And we found him. Get 'im Evie!" the boy tossed his snowball as did his sister. Bucky did too and tugged him along with a laugh.

"C'mon Steve, we need ammo, make snowballs," Bucky said as he tugged him down behind some scraggily looking Christmas trees. "We gotta beat these kids." He gathered snow in mounds, molding them into balls. He did too, laughing.

"Keep throwing them Jake!" Evie shouted.

"Make them faster!" Jake countered. Steve shook his head, molding snow and grinning like a loon. The last time he had a snowball fight was high school. Bucky had mounded up the snow for the defensive barrier and was chucking snowballs with his right hand, his left being too strong and powerful for playing fair with the kids. They both had flushed cheeks and grins; the sorrow of the past few weeks melting away like snow in spring. Bucky laughed whenever the kids got him (Steve thinks Bucky let them) and was so glad to see his friend smile again.

"Charge!" Jake yelled, as he and his sister vaulted over their barrier and charged them. The two kids tackled Bucky pinning him down and dumping handfuls of snow onto his face. Bucky tickled them beneath the arms, mindful of his strength and metal arm. He helped Bucky by dumping snow on the kids.

"Jake, Evie, leave the nice men alone," their mother called. Steve looked over and his shoulders slumped. They came for their tree. He felt better about not taking the tag off and cutting it down, he watched the kids scramble off Bucky and ran to their mother; he wouldn't have wanted to ruin their Christmas. She came up to them, snow crunching beneath her feet. "I hope my children weren't bothering you."

"No, not at all ma'am," he said. "We like kids. Snowball fights are always welcomed and encouraged."

The woman smiled, hugging her children close. He could see it: Natasha with their child, smiling with love and pride as strangers asked about their kid. He swallowed the lump in his throat, realizing that he wanted a child just as much as she did, that he now had a chance to have a family, a child without his plethora of illnesses. Peggy had told him to taste the American Dream, not just protect it, but to hold it in his hands and cherish it. "Well, they're little rascals at times." She ruffled their hairs. "Aren't you?"

"Cici, c'mere and help. It's down," the husband said as he walked over to them. "Hi."

"Hello," he said, polite. "Nice tree."

"Yeah," the husband said, beaming with pride. "Jake picked it out. What about you two, looking for trees?"

"We were, but these two distracted us," Bucky said, "challenged us to a snowball fight. Much more important than tree hunting, right guys?" He tossed some snow at the kids, who squealed with laughter as they protected their faces from the snow.

"Yep," the children chimed and broke away from their mother to hug Bucky, thanking him for partaking in their fun. Steve sighed, a wistful smile on his face. Bucky would make a good uncle, he had plenty of experience helping his mother with his younger siblings. Bucky had always been good with kids. Even during the war, the war orphans clustered around him and he'd play games with them and hand them pieces of Hersey's chocolate as rewards for doing a good job. Bucky had joked that he needed to hook up with Peggy soon, so they could have a kid and he could play the doting uncle. He remembered laughing at that. Now… now he wondered if Bucky still wanted to be the doting uncle. By the way he played with the kids, it wasn't that far-fetched.

"Pardon?" Steve asked when the father's voice drew him out of his thoughts. "I didn't catch that."

"I said it's a shame the adoption agencies won't let nice couples like you adopt more kids. Those poor kids need good homes, and it doesn't need to be a man and woman to make a family. A family is what you make it out to be," he said.

"Err… yeah," Steve said, unsure what this man was talking about. "More orphans definitely need to be adopted by good loving families."

"Exactly, even if they are LGBTQ+ couples. People are people, and there are LGBTQ+ people that do want children and would make great parents," the father said. He pulled his children close. Steve frowned, looking at Bucky.

"It's okay, I'm not one of those crazy bigots that won't let you play with my kids," the mother said. "We recognize good people when we see them."

Bucky put his hand on his shoulder and whispered into his ear, "they think we're a pair of buggers."

His eyes widened and he flushed. "Oh, oh uhm… ma'am, I uhm… he's just my friend. Best friend since childhood." He took his glove off and held up his left hand. "See? Married. Got a lovely wife. Swell girl."

"Oh, Eugene, they're still… they're still in the closet," the mother said, a sad note in her voice. "It's okay, we understand how hard it is and that our society is geared around heteronormativity." She patted his arm. "It's okay. We won't say a word."

"It's a damn shame," the father said, "that two perfectly nice guys like you have to hide who you truly are, because there are so many homophobic people out there that just don't understand that love _is_ love. You two would make great dads." The father gave them a strange smile. "Hang in there, things are changing, people will see it." He smiled at his wife and children. "Well, see ya." He led his family over to their down tree. He watched them pick it up and trot down the hill. He frowned as he turned to Bucky.

"Do we look like two buggers?" he asked. His friend shrugged. "Or do they just see buggers when they see two men hanging out together?"

"I guess the latter," he said. "Do you still wanna look for a tree. I don't see anything with paying fifty bucks for here." Bucky looked around. He did too, seeing no tree that looked _right_. It was a nice farm, tucked away in the mountains, with great big cedar trees ringing the perimeter. Snowflakes began to fall, and he brushed them off his hair. "Let's go home. Nat said you had a fake tree."

"Yeah," he said, tugging his glove back on. "Let's get home." He headed back down the hill, Bucky a few steps behind him. "It's a nice fake tree," he said, "spent two hundred dollars on it, looks super real."

"Huh." Bucky joined him at his side. "Well, maybe next year we'll get the perfect tree."

"We will. We'll go tree hunting in time," he said. "Hey, Bucky?" he stepped around some of the baby trees and stumps. He wasn't sure if he should ask Bucky this or not, but he needed someone to give him an answer or at least a path. "Buck?"

"Hm?" Bucky looked up. "What's up Steve?"

"Do… do you think I'll be a good dad?" he asked; they got to the road and headed down, ignoring the hay ride. They waved at the family they met, smiling as the tractor pulled ahead. He looked at his friend, Bucky pushed his hair back and sighed.

"What brings this up? What they said?" he asked. He shook his head. "What then? Steve… is Natasha pregnant?"

"No," he said, a weak smile on his lips, he wasn't sure if the sigh that escaped was relief or disappointment. "She can't get pregnant. It's just… she has a box full of baby things she has collected. She wants a child, Bucky and… I never figured I'd have kids. Dames didn't exactly want to dance with me, so what made them want to have kids with me."

"That was seventy years ago, Steve," Bucky pointed out, "now look at you. Got yourself a dame. Seemed like she doesn't mind dancing with you." He nudged him. "Have you talked to Natasha about this?"

"No. I… we… we haven't really discussed it and the only time we have really talked about it was when… when… we made whoopie for the first time." He flushed, stopping at the bottom of the hill. "You've known me my whole life, so I want to know: would I make a good father, or should I just dismiss this as a crazy idea and try to comfort Natasha about this?" He looked at his friend, feeling desperate for some guidance. "I hate seeing her so upset about this. I wish there was a way to fix it for her, but I can't. She thinks she's broken, Buck." He shook his head. "She's so strong, so brave and fearless, but this… this just breaks her." He rubbed his face. "I'm her husband, but I can't help her with this. I don't know how." He looked at his friend. "Bucky, answer me."

"I'm thinking, jeez Steve," he huffed. "Let's get into the car, we can talk about it on the drive home." He started walking to the car and Steve followed, feeling even more lost about this entire situation. He let Bucky drive and got into the passenger seat, buckling up. They didn't say anything as Bucky pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road, heading to the highway. He watched the snowy trees zip by, resting his head against the head rest. "Do you want to be a dad?"

"I… I don't know Bucky," he said, looking down at his hands in his lap. He picked at his fingers. "I never figured I'd get married or want kids. I mean, I was so sick before." He sighed, shaking his head.

"Don't think about back then, Steve. You aren't the Steve of seventy years ago. You're the Steve now." Bucky made a left and started to pick up speed for the on-ramp. "I think what you should is sit down with Natasha and have a good long talk about this and think about why you want kids." He smiled. "But to answer your original question, you'll make a great dad."

"Really?" he asked.

"Yeah. You're a great guy, Steve. You have a good heart, you care about people. Just think about why you would want a family, a kid. I get you want to help Natasha, but… a kid is a lifelong commitment." He looked at him. "And nobody knows how long you'll live now that you have the serum in you."

"Dr. Erskine said that I would live twice as long as the average person. Bruce said he predicted my life span to be close to two centuries." He looked at his hands. "Two hundred years Buck, I was just lucky I made it to my next birthday. Now I can't imagine living two hundred years."

"Yeah, crazy," Bucky agreed. They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Steve closed his eyes and mulled over what Bucky said. He hadn't realized it, but he had started watching dads with their kids, watching them play catch and ride a bike. They all seemed happy, fulfilled, as if something key in their life had been missing before their child came into it. He'd look at his backyard and imagine a child laughing in the green summer grass, building a tree house in the tree that they had, teaching his son or daughter how to play catch, watching fireworks with them, hunting Christmas trees and opening presents on Christmas morning. Having that sense of continuity, that his life and love and story would continue in that of his child, that when he dies someone would miss him and remember him. An unbreakable chain of love. He smiled as Bucky took the exit to the freeway that lead to their neighbourhood.

* * *

They got to the house around six in the evening. It was cold and bleak, their house lacking the external Christmas lights, but he saw a soft glow of Christmas lights through the windows and felt a warm sense of peace and contentment wash over him. He went in and saw the work Natasha did. The Christmas village was up and aglow, their Christmas knickknacks on display, artfully arranged to catch the eye and let the gaze linger just a bit before moving on. "Smells good," Bucky said. "And it's not a bad tree." He closed the door behind him. Sure enough the fake tree was in the corner near the tv. He kicked off his shoes and went to it, taking a deep breath.

"Smells like a real tree," he said. "Nat? Nat, honey?" he didn't see her and wondered where she was. "Natasha?" he called again.

"In the kitchen!" she chimed, and he went towards her voice. She pulled out a tray of baked apples. "I found a recipe on line. Turns out I can bake." She smiled. He felt the corners of his lips twitch up and he saw it: her glowing and round with their child, a future bound by love. It was a dream he long buried, given up on because of who he used to be and how his life ended up. Peggy was right, he had a chance now to live that elusive dream. "Steve?" Natasha asked, setting the tray of apples on the stove. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he said, wiping his eyes and pulling her into a tight hug. "Hey… let's… let's work on having a baby."

* * *

 **Bugger is an old slang term for homosexual, it was commonly used in the British Army during WWII. If I gave offense, I'm sorry.**

 **Anyway, this doesn't feel real Christmas-y but irunno, I like it.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **PS: Job hunting sucks.**


	21. Keepsake VI

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

To say the last three years had been tough would be a woeful understatement; it had been gut wrenching miserable. After Christmas in 2016, she had gone to Bruce in an effort to reverse whatever sterilization the Red Room had done to her. He had phone a colleague: Helen Cho, a leader in cellular regeneration research. The two examined her, determining that the scarring of her uterus and cervix, along with her tubes being tied contributed to her sterilization. To reverse it, Helen had said she'd need to undergo a special operation at her facility in South Korea. Since the technology was new there was a low success rate. So, April of 2017, she and Steve went to Seoul where Helen performed the operation and the regeneration of the interior of her uterus and cervix.

Helen told her that once healed, she and Steve could try for a baby. They did with gusto. She looked up online about the best positions to conceive, downloaded an app to help track her periods and ovulation cycles, ate the miracle foods she found on the internet and increased the protein (Steve didn't seem to mind the protein increase) in their diet. The first few months after the procedure, she failed to get pregnant, and she feared that the procedure hadn't worked and that the Red Room had taken away any chance of having a family. Glum, and feeling like giving up, Steve had taken her on a small road trip around the Northeast and somewhere along the line they had conceived. The first time the over-the-counter pregnancy test came back positive she didn't believe it and took two more with the same results. She sat down in the bathroom and cried for joy, Steve almost busted down the door when he heard, but the smile on his face when she told him would forever stay in her mind. He had held her, his large hand over her still flat stomach, his joyous tears plinking against her neck.

The joy was short lived however. A few weeks later she miscarried. She didn't even realize it happened. She woke up with some cramping and a heavy flow; it was only when she went to Bruce the next day to do the ultrasound that she learned the awful truth. Telling Steve was the worse. It hurt to see his face crumple in sorrow, to know they came close to having a baby but not quiet. Their sex life had dried up after that, their marriage hit a speed bump and she feared that their desire for a child would ruin something she treasured, driving an irreparable wedge between her and Steve. She felt like a failure, that the lost baby was her fault and that if she never had sex again she'd be spared that pain and suffering. She withdrew from Steve, their bed became rigidly separated into his side and her side. He tried to coax back into intimacy, but she rebuked his advances. Betty had told her that a miscarriage wasn't her fault and wasn't a reflection upon her as a person. So, she got back on the horse, surprised Steve with a lovely dinner (meatloaf and potatoes with whiskey glazed carrots) and seduced him.

It followed like that for the next three years. She'd get pregnant, it would survive a few weeks, and then she'd lose it. Bruce had her on a cocktail of different drugs designed to make sure her body didn't reject the pregnancy. It made her feel sicker than the pregnancy did and still she lost baby after baby. He even had a theory that her chronic miscarriages didn't stem from her repaired reproductive system but from the combination of her and Steve's serums within the developing child. The worst was the fourth lost pregnancy last year; the baby actually developed enough to look like a vague alien-esque version of a human and had a heartbeat. She and Steve went to the weekly checkup and much to their horror their baby no longer had a heartbeat. Steve said she screamed. She didn't remember what happened after Bruce told her that. It didn't help that a few days later Ginger came over to their doorstep (she refused to let the woman into her house), to tell her she was pregnant.

She endured nine months of her neighbour prancing around, pregnant and happy. She tried convincing Steve to let her killer her, promising nobody would ever figure it out that it was her, or find the body. Steve had shaken his head and packed their suitcase, feeling it was best to stay in their suite at Avengers Tower for the duration of Ginger's pregnancy. She was thankful that she couldn't hear Ginger's baby cry, but her heart hurt whenever she saw the child, knowing that no matter what she did, she seemed unable to have her own child.

During all this Steve had remained by her side. He bought her little charms about how their unborn children had wings, the three Mother's days he gave her white lilies for each child they lost and did everything to cheer her up. She watched him add the sonogram pictures to her little box and add other baby items: a little baseball cap for a boy, tiny ballet slippers for a girl. Onesies with cute sayings about how the baby was daddy's MVP or daddy's perfect princess. He'd hold her and promised everything would work out. He even investigated adoption, but the adoption agencies refused to allow them on account of her background and their profession (Tony gave them a long tirade about how its utter bullshit that Captain America was unable to adopt a kid).

But all that seemed behind them now. Her fifth pregnancy seemed a success and so far, she had yet to lose the child (Bruce kept saying the baby was hitting all the prenatal markers). They had kept it secret for the first trimester, only Bruce and Betty knew. The second trimester she and Steve told their close friends. Tony and Pepper had been ecstatic, Tony opened a trust fund for the baby. Clint and Laura gave them parenting books and advice on how to deal with the coming months (she laughed when Clint told Steve to just shut up and do as she says; don't even argue). Sam promised that he'll be there if they needed it.

Bucky was the last to find out, having been away on a mission for Fury during the excitement. It was a good thing too, for Bruce brought in a special machine that took 3D imagery of the baby. He showed them their baby in a golden image, real and alive. She watched their child suck its thumb, tiny lips moving as it did so. She could see Steve's features: his strong chin and nose. They had found out they were having a boy. She smiled at Steve as he squeezed her hand, kissing her temple as they stared at the screen, at their baby, their son. "James," Steve had whispered.

"James Clinton," she had added. Steve nodded, agreeing and everything seemed too real and too perfect in that moment. The day after that she had invited Clint over and Bucky had just returned. They announced that they were having a son, and that both would be their child's godfather and that his name was James Clinton Rogers. Bucky wept, hugging Steve tight and Clint tried to keep a straight face, but he too was moved by such an honor.

And now she was six months pregnant, the end was in sight for James was due on March 9th. It was a week before Christmas and they had been so busy setting up the nursery that they only had time to decorate the inside. It was a chilly afternoon, James had been bouncing about inside her all day, and all she wanted was to take a nap once Steve got back from New York (Tony needed him to test some things). She checked the mail — most of it was Steve's from the Army and the VA and a few bills and one or two things for her — and was heading back to the door, mindful of the icy patches, not wanting to slip and fall. "Hi, neighbour!" Ginger called.

Natasha froze, her hand going to the swell of her belly as if Ginger was some horrific demoness that would eat her precious unborn baby. Bruce had warned her that due to her past history, her PTSD (which she had well under control, thank you very much), she could have prenatal anxiety. It didn't bother her too much, she never was prone to excessive worrying, but there had always been something about Ginger that set her on edge, and it just seemed to ramp up ever since she was pregnant; she needed to end the conversation quickly and get inside to relax. She looked up and gave the woman a queasy smile. "Hi, Ginger," she said, putting her hand on the doorknob. "How are you and Robbie doing?" she asked, smiling at the little boy in her arms. She was pretty sure Henry wasn't Robbie's father as Ginger kept hinting at something about Robbie's parentage. All she knew was that the UPS man changed to a UPS girl that did this route. It could be a coincidence, but she was a spy and learned that such things weren't coincidences.

"We're doing great. Robbie's super excited for Christmas, aren't you Robbie?" Ginger asked. The little boy blinked, chewing on his finger. She smiled and already felt like the superior parent. Her own son would be the cuter baby, the smarter baby, the better baby. "Where's Steve?"

"Work," she said, with a little shrug. That sixth sense of someone watching her scratched at the base of her neck; she ignored it. "Why? You want to talk to him about something?" she asked. Though she had no proof of this, she suspected Ginger had been trying to get into Steve's pants since they met (the way she kept saying how handsome he was at their first ever meeting was more than enough grounds for cause of suspicion). Steve took his vows seriously and had turned down handyman jobs at Ginger's house more than once (this was partly due that she learned that Steve was inept as a handyman).

"Well, I was just wondering when he was going to put up the Christmas lights, you two have been slacking!" Ginger hugged her son. "We need you to step it up!" She bounced her boy on her hip, smiling. "So, would you tell him that when he gets home?"

She grinned, using every ounce of her training to belie her hatred for this woman and wishing she could show her up or murder her. Murder would be the better option, but Steve would be disappointed in her, _if_ he found out. "I would start pulling out lights and planning the display, but you haven't told us the theme this year, Ginger. I may be pregnant but the company I work for still requires me to do IT work. Steve and I have just been too busy to attend the block meetings."

"I know, and it's such a shame that you two haven't come. We'd love to have you. It's so much fun," she said. "Anyway, the theme is Christmastime with the Avengers." She grinned. "Think you and Steve can pull it off."

She stared, wondering if this woman figured out who they were. She'll have to call Hill and have her look into it. If Ginger had indeed figured out who they were, she and Steve would need to move. They had already painted James' room a nice pale blue, decorated it with dinosaurs. She had placed the blue stuffed elephant she had gotten against the pillows of his crib. Pepper had gotten them the best baby furniture: state of the art changing table, the best crib, small dresser for the little clothes. The baby shower wasn't until late February, but James' doting aunts and uncles already gotten him things. She spent her evening scrapbooking her pregnancy under Steve's watchful gaze as he drank his chamomile tea. It had become their pre-bedtime routine and she felt sad that it would all end in a few months. Somehow, deep in her bones, she knew James would be their only child and she wanted to preserve each moment of this once in a life time experience. "Yeah," she said, nodding at her neighbour. "I'll let Steve know."

"Excellent!" Ginger said. She nodded, watching a sleek black car drive pass their houses, the windows tinted dark and she was unable to see whoever was inside. Fear prickled up her spine as her once idyllic neighbourhood became transmogrified by her fear. _Remember your purpose Natalia._ The wind seemed to sigh, andshe jerked away from the other woman, eyes wide. Her hand went to her belly and she almost dropped the mail. She stared at Ginger, who looked surprised and a bit worried (or as worried as a snobby suburbanite woman could look). "Natasha something wrong?"

"Did you say anything?" she asked, keeping the fear from her voice. The black car pulled into one of the driveways, a man getting out and going to the house. It's nothing, it's probably just a friend of whomever lives there. No need to panic, Bruce said to keep your stress down. "I'm sorry, absentminded today" — she offered Ginger a blithe smile — "I missed that."

"I said I can't wait to see what you and Steve come up with this year and if you need anything just give me a call," Ginger said. "Are you sure you're alright? You look like you seen a ghost? Do you want me to call Steve?"

"No, no," she said, smiling and shaking her head. "I'm fine. Just need to sit down. Thanks for telling me the theme." She went inside her house and locked the door. Tense, she went to the kitchen table and dropped the mail next to her half-drunk tea before going around to lock and close all the windows and draw the blinds. She checked the security system and locked the doors leading to the outside. Get a grip Natasha, it's been years since you left the Red Room. They hadn't sent anyone after you. Steve will be home soon. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. James must've sensed her distress, for he gave a sharp kick to her side. "It's okay little one," she said, rubbing the spot. "It's okay." She sat down on the couch and turned the tv on.

Afternoon tv consisted of crap. Mostly talk shows and soap operas that she had no interest in. She selected the most mind-numbing of these, stretched out on the couch and traced patterns on her stomach. The tv was loud enough that someone at the window could hear it but low enough to allow her to hear what was going on in the house. "You're imaging things," she told herself. "You're tired and imagining things."' She laid her hands on her belly, smiling whenever she felt James move. "That's right, Mommy is just being silly and imaging things." She let out a long sigh and closed her eyes. "Nap time big guy," she whispered, smiling as she felt her son tumble inside her. She drifted off, falling asleep on the couch.

She woke up, only to see the sterile white walls of a hospital room. "Hello?" she called, wondering where Steve was, if he came home, did she go into labour and he brought her to the hospital. She dismissed that, knowing that she would have felt labour pains even in her sleep. "Hello?" she called again.

"Here's Mommy," a woman in a white nurse gown said, bringing over a blue wrapped bundle. "She's happy to see you." The nurse gave her the bundle and she smiled at the sight. Her son, her James, pink and new and healthy. She felt a love so powerful she didn't know it could exist before as she kissed her baby's forehead. He smelled new and innocent.

"James," she whispered, "James. I'm so happy… so happy." She traced his tiny face and looked up to find Steve, to show him their son and how perfect he is. "Steve?" she called, but her husband wasn't there. A slender shadow fell over her and her son, instinctively she pulled him close, shielding him from whatever horror had appeared. "Madame B," she whispered, recognizing the rat-faced woman with her silver hair pulled tight into a severe bun. "Wh-What are you doing here?"

"You forgot your purpose Natalia," Madame B said and yanked James from her arms. Her son wailed, squirming and unhappy in Madame B's arms. "Remember your purpose."

"Please, no don't this," she begged, reaching for her son. "Give me back my son, please, give him back to me." It hurt hearing her baby cry, James needed her, but she felt weak, unable to move, unable to help her son. She whimpered, tears leaking from her eyes. "Please, give me back my son." Madame B handed her a gun instead, James continued to wail. "No… no."

"Remember your purpose. Remember who you are."

She picked up the gun, the cold metal familiar and cruel. "I have no place, no name. I'm Black Widow." Madame B nodded, James cried louder, and the cruel woman looked to her left. She followed her gaze.

"Kill him," Madame B ordered, and she fired three times. "Good girl." She said, walking away and taking James with her. She looked around, her teacher was gone, her son was gone. At least she still had Steve.

"Nat?" it was Steve's voice, one filled with hurt and confusion. She turned, seeing her husband standing there, three bloody gunshot wounds in his chest, blood on his hands. "Why Nat?" he asked. "I thought you loved me? We were going to have a family, a little boy. Nat, I loved you."

"No, Steve!" she jerked forward, reaching for him but her hand met air and she fell.

She jerked awake, catching herself on the table before she fell off the couch; the local news was playing now, giving a report about local news story. "I don't need this." She turned the tv off and pushed herself back onto the couch, James fluttered about inside her as if he was asking if everything was okay. It was a strange sensation, one that never made her not smile and she swiped her hand over the swell of her stomach to sooth her son. Keys scrapped in the lock of the door, it took her a moment to realize that she was home, but she still looked around, making sure everything was how it should be: the tree in the corner by the window with lights and decorations. The Christmas village on the mantle, and their assortment of knickknacks on the table and windowsills, the wreath on the door. The door opened to reveal Steve, a couple of pizzas balanced in his hand. "Hey, honey," he said smiling at her as he came in. She smiled and got up, resting her hand on her belly and smiled when she felt James' tiny fluttering movement. He was safe and sound inside her.

It was all a bad dream. I was just tired today. She went over to her husband and kissed him. "What did Tony want?"

"Usual, test out new equipment. He built an obstacle course, wanted to see how fast I could do it. Set a record," he said as he went to the kitchen to set the pizzas down. "You didn't start the oven."

"Oh? Was I supposed to?" she asked, coming over to join him. She didn't remember him calling her about the oven.

"I called about twenty minutes ago, told you I was breaking take-n-bake pizzas home, told you to start the oven." He turned the oven on. "Didn't you hear your phone?"

"I uh… fell asleep on the couch," she said. "You got some things in the mail." She got a glass from the cabinet and poured herself some milk. "From the Army and VA."

"Oh." He washed his hands and unwrapped the pizzas. "How was your day?" he asked, throwing away the cellophane wrapping. "Nothing happened?"

"Quiet." She took another sip of milk. "Ginger told me the theme, Christmastime with the Avengers."

"Do you think she knows?" he asked as he went over to the coat rack to take off his coat and gloves and hang up his keys. "I'd hate to move, we just got the nursery set up and—" he stopped. She looked around, wondering why he had stopped. She glanced at her feet, there was no evidence that her water broke, or she had gone into labour (it was too early for that anyway, but Bruce warned that things could happen). James fluttering inside her disproved any notion of a premature birth. "Are you okay? You look pale."

"Just… tired," she said as he came over. He kissed her, and she rested her hands on his chest, whole and undamaged. It was just a dream. Just a dream. "Do… do you think Bucky can stay with us? It's a bit lonely in the house when you're gone."

"Uh… sure," he said, "don't think he'd mind. Probably wants to get away from Tony." He wrapped his arms around her and she leaned into his embrace with a sigh. "I'll call him in a bit and ask."

"Thanks." She sighed, enjoying the scent of his cologne, the strength of his embrace and his hand on her belly, a protective shield over their unborn son. He pressed a kiss to her brow, a content sigh escaping his lips. "Steve?"

"I don't like leaving you home alone," he murmured into her hair. "We're so close Nat. Just a few more months and he'll be born." He grinned. She smiled and nodded. "So long as nothing happens, I'll be here for the birth. I know you hate being benched but… you can't exactly fight while pregnant and—"

"What do you mean so long as nothing happens?" she asked. Steve sighed, pulling away from her when the oven dinged. She hated being out of the loop with the dangers of the world, more so now that she was pregnant. Her maternal instinct to protect her son was strong. "Steve?"

"There's a situation in Mongolia." He put the pizzas in the oven and set the timer. "Maria's monitoring it, and she'll let us know if the Avengers need to assemble. So far nothing's been happening, but you never know." He took her hand and squeezed it. "I promise I'll be there for you when he's ready to be born."

"You better, it's a scheduled C-section," she said, smacking him in the stomach. He made a soft ow, and rubbed his abused abs. "You even picked the date." She drank the rest of her milk; she rested her hand on her belly and smiled when she felt James move. "Anything else you need for dinner?"

"Chicken wings, but I want you to go sit down, you shouldn't be on your feet so much," he said. She rolled her eyes and opened the refrigerator and grabbed the two packs extra-large chicken wings. She brought them over to the sink, got out a baking sheet and placed some paper towels on it before she rinsed the chicken wings. "Natasha."

"I know my limits, Steve." She hated how he doted on her, making sure she ate according to Bruce's diet, making sure she took the prenatal vitamins, the medicine that helped her body recognize the pregnancy as not a threat. Did she sleep well, take her afternoon nap, did she eat her afternoon snack. Did she do the stretching exercises Bruce recommended. She swore Steve had a list of questions for her; she was surprised he hadn't asked her yet. It was impossible to get mad at him, she knew it was his way of showing he cared and was trying to make sure nothing bad happened to their baby. But he had perfected a look that Tony was quick to dub the Disappointed Dad look, and to know she had disappointed Steve — Captain America, the shiny beckon of all that was good and true and honest — made her feel awful. So she ate the foods he bought her: pickles for salt, peanut butter (she hated peanut butter, but for some reason it wasn't so bad now that she was pregnant) for fats, salmon and avocado for the healthy fats. The list went on and on. She knew there was nothing he could do to prevent another miscarriage, but she was convinced he believed if he could fill her up with enough healthy foods he could at least lower the risks.

Steve gave her a look and she huffed, kissing his cheek. "Alright, I'll go sit down and turn the tv on," she said, walking off and rubbing at the annoying kink in her back. Steve made a little sound in the back of his throat and she went over to the couch and turned the tv on before flopping into the plush cushions with a sigh; well, she didn't really flop — she hadn't flopped into something for at least the last four months, the ungainly awkwardness of her body was something she was still trying to get used to. She pushed the button to make the recliner work and closed her eyes with a sigh. Everything was starting to hurt: her feet, her back, her breasts (those had been hurting on and off during the entire pregnancy), hell even her hands hurt. Groaning, she changed the channel to the national news and closed her eyes. The tv was a low hum, but she knew Steve could hear it just fine. It was peaceful, listening to him cook and the steady drone of the reporter on the tv.

The reporter said something, and she cracked an eye open, a cold chill wriggling its way up her spine. The strange anxious feeling came back, the one she felt while taking to Ginger this afternoon and she folded her arms in a protective fashion over her belly. She couldn't hear Steve cooking. "Steve?" She swallowed, her mouth going dry. "Steve?" she called again, glancing at the window that faced Ginger's house. She lowered the recliner and stood up with a grunt. "Steve?" she took slow measured steps. The toilet flushed, and he came out of the nearby bathroom, tucking his shirt into his pants. He finished adjusting himself as he came over to her.

"Yeah?" he asked, a befuddled expression on his face. She relaxed and felt stupid for thinking something horrible had happened to him. Tears burned at the corner of her eyes and he came over, wrapping her in his strong arms. She would not cry, she would not cry, _she would not cry_! A shaky whimper escaped her throat. "Nat, honey, what's wrong?" he asked, rubbing her back.

"Just… been edgy ever since I talked to Ginger this afternoon," she said, knowing it was better to just get it off her chest instead of letting it fester. It was times like these she hated being pregnant, just wanted the entire experience over and have her baby in her arms. Steve made a comforting sound, holding her closer. "I… I had a nightmare…" she shook her head, squeaking a bit when he scooped her up bridal style. She felt safe in his arms as he sat on the couch, snuggling her.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asked, running his hand through her hair. She didn't want to, but she knew she should. Being in his arms, listening to his breathing and heartbeat helped calm her down.

"I dreamt that James was born" — she smiled up at him — "he was perfect, Steve. Tiny, pink and new and… I love him. I love him so much already." She put her hand on her belly, smiling. His hand joined hers.

"I know. I love him too."

"Then Madame B… one of the instructors from the Red Room came… she… she took him away and told me to remember my purpose." She closed her eyes, shaking. "She gave me a gun and told me to shoot him. James was crying, Steve. My little boy was crying and I couldn't do anything but obey Madame B and so I did and…" she stopped, putting her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palm. "I shot you. You asked me why and told me we were going to have a family… asked me if you still loved me. I woke up after that."

"Oh Nat," he whispered, smoothing her hair and kissing away her tears. During all of this, Steve had been a stalwart rock. He held her, comforted her, even went to the Lamaze classes with her, read parenting books and pregnancy books, rubbed her back and feet and took care of her. The doting annoyed her, but she could proudly say she had the best husband, the most considerate father-to-be. Most of the women in her Lamaze class were jealous of how attentive Steve was, the other husbands all ashamed that they weren't living up to Steve's standard. But, then again, they didn't know she was married to Captain America. "Hey, it's okay. You've been out of the Red Room for thirteen years, they have yet to come and get you."

"I know, I know, and its probably just hormones but… I'm still…" she curled closer to him. "I feel weak Steve and I don't like it."

"You're not. You're just vulnerable right now." He nuzzled her brow. "Look, I have to go back to New York tomorrow, but I'll take you with me. You need to get out of the house, you've been cooped up too long. Bucky'll spend the rest of the pregnancy with us and you and he can do things while I'm not home."

"Does removing Ginger count as one of the things we can do?" she asked, a teasing tone in her voice. He groaned, rolling his eyes. "Alright, alright."

"I'll call Hill, see if she can't pull some strings or something," he said. "My point is, Nat, you're gonna be fine. I'll keep you safe, and if I can't do that we have friends that are just as capable." He hugged her. "I know James is our son, but he's also the first baby to be born since the Avengers formed, and it's kinda a big deal and really special. So, everyone is gonna help."

"Thank you." She kissed the corner of his mouth. He smiled, kissing her on the lips instead. "You're going to make a great dad."

"Aw, shucks." He flushed. "Don't sell yourself short Nat. You'll make a great mom too." He hefted her up and set her on the couch. "Now, I have to check the pizzas and make the wings." He kissed her again, then he kissed her belly. "You behave James. Be a good boy and finish growing. Your mom and I can't wait to meet you." He rubbed her belly, a dopey smile on his face. She stole another kiss from him before she let him go back into the kitchen to finish dinner.

"You're making your famous wings, right?" she asked, leaning her head back to project her voice further into the kitchen. It surprised a lot of people that Steve was such a talented cook. Most people figured she did all the cooking and cleaning, but that wasn't true. Steve did most of the cooking (she could only make a few Russian dishes and a few American ones, but she loved baking). Those that visited and noticed the collection of cookbooks always asked her if they were hers and were surprised when she said they belonged to her husband. Steve loved cooking (he also loved cooking shows), and every spring and summer went to the nearby Farmer's Market. He cooked Asian, South American, Mexican, French, Italian, Mediterranean, Middle Eastern, Indian, Thai, African, Caribbean. He even cooked Russian dishes. She always loved it when he'd beam with pride at her enjoyment of a dish from her homeland. She asked him once why he enjoyed cooking some much, and he told her it's the plethora of food and his desire to try everything. But if she had to pick one dish that was his specialty, she'd have to say it was his chicken wings. On one of their rare date-dates, she suggested Buffalo Wild Wings, and the concept of having chicken wings as an entrée blew his mind. It became one of his top five favorite foods of the 21st Century. Of course, it amused her that the wait staff at Buffalo Wild Wings were surprised about how much he ate (it was one of the reasons they hardly ever went out to eat). The next day he had gone out to make his own, even making his own secret sauce (which Tony had tried to get him to market a time or two).

"You bet, can't have pizza without chicken wings," he said. She sighed, mouthwatering at the thought of his chicken wings, she'll down a couple of tums after to curtail the heartburn. It also sucked she was pregnant and her sex drive was low. Watching him suck the sauce of his fingers was erotic (in fact she was pretty sure they had chicken wings when they conceived James). "I'm making a special honey barbeque sauce for you. So, you don't have to worry about heartburn."

"Oh." She looked at the tv. Well that put a damper on things. She drummed her fingers on her belly. For once she wanted to eat something without having to worry about her stomach deciding that this just wasn't going to fly. Morning sickness sucked for the first trimester, and then she finally got her appetite back, she started getting cravings and heartburn. She was glad that she hadn't suffered constipation (yet). "I can take some tums."

"No, it's fine," he said. She sighed, rolling her eyes and focusing on the tv. She couldn't wait until she was no longer pregnant and can eat normally again. After a while she heard the sizzle of chicken frying and the pungent aroma of whatever spices Steve used in his wing sauce. She could hear him humming a song from his era, sometimes singing. It amazed her how well he took to domestic living, once he opened himself to the idea. She knew his home would always be the battlefield, protecting innocent people the horrors of the world, but it made her happy that he now had a second home, a life away from combat, a life with her and soon with their son. "Here you go," he said, causing her to jump. He chuckled. "Did I scare you?" he kissed her brow. "Sorry."

"Just lost in thought." She took the plate and inhaled wonderful smells of pizza and chicken. He set a bottle of beer on the table. It was a high end brand, Steve had taken her suggestion of being snobby about what alcohol he drunk to heart. "This looks yummy." She dug in, enjoying the pizza and wings with a happy hum. He sighed as he sat next to her one plate full of pizza another piled high with reddish-orange chicken wings. She could smell the sauce and she itched to have one, heartburn be damned. "You know," she said between bites of pizza, "if people didn't know better they'd think you're the one pregnant."

He chuckled, grinning as he reached for his beer and took a long swallow. "This is… Nice," he said, reaching over to rub her arm. He went back to eating. "Are you sure you don't want to give him a Russian name too?" he asked.

"He already has a Russian name," she said. Steve arched a brow. "Yakov Stepanovich Romanova." She shrugged. "I asked Clint to pull some strings with the Kremlin to get James Russian citizenship as well."

"But you denounced yours," he pointed out.

"Doesn't mean my son shouldn't have Russian citizenship." She knew that look, it was one of worry. "Don't worry, Steve. It's all very hush-hush. Clint knows what he's doing, nothing will trace back to me. He'll be safe. And the US doesn't recognize duel-citizenship. So, his citizenship is primarily to the US."

"What about Russia?"

"They recognize duel-citizenship, though the holder of a passport is exclusively Russian. It's… I want James to know about his Russian heritage. I gave up my Russian citizenship as a part of my agreement with Shield thirteen years ago, but I don't see why my son can't have it too." She placed her hand on her belly. "He's Russian too in a way, I want him to at least have that from me."

"He has a lot of things from you already," he said and nuzzled her cheek. She could smell the sauce and tried to kiss him to get a little bit on her lips. He pulled away. "Nope, I know what you're doing."

"Steve, please!" she whined. "Just one."

"No, I made you honey barbeque wings." He pointed to the generous helping of wings in their dark brown glaze. She made a face. "What?" he licked his thumb and she growled. She swore he knew exactly what this did to her. "I thought you liked my wings."

"I do," she said, poking at her wings. "I just like your sauce better." She looked at him, trying to muster her best puppy pout. "Please, can I have a few of yours."

"Nat, you'll complain about heartburn in a few hours. And the antacids never seem to work or they make you feel queasy. You know that."

"I know." She didn't care though. She'll suffer for this. "I won't complain." He arched a brow. "Promise." She rested her head on his shoulder. "I had a horrible day and my feet hurt and so does my back. Spice isn't going to hurt James and I know you're being considerate by making honey barbeque, you should know I hate honey barbeque." She kissed his cheek. "Always had. Also, I'm pregnant."

Steve let out a great big sigh and closed his eyes. "Happy wife, happy life." He set his plates on the table and took hers. "Alright. Alright." He swapped her helping of wings with some of his and wiped the sauce off on his napkin. "There you go, honey." He kissed her cheek.

"Thank you," she said and ate the wings with gusto. "I love these." She watched him get up. "Whatcha gettin'?" she asked. He grunted and opened the fridge. He came back with a glass of milk for her. "Oh, thanks." She took a long swallow and went back to eating. He grabbed the remote and opened the menu, looking for something to watch. They settled on _My Big Fat Greek Wedding_. Sure enough, she did end up having some heartburn (the milk and antacids helped), and she didn't complain to Steve as she promised. After the movie Steve shooed her upstairs to get ready for bed while he did the dishes. He came up a while later, showered and crawled into bed with her. It looked odd, with her propped up by a bunch of pillows and him with his only one. Steve didn't complain though, as he could caress her belly until he fell asleep. She would watch him sleep for a few minutes before drifting off herself.

* * *

The nice thing about being an Avenger and pregnant was that the medical staff was all in house. Bruce was her doctor (though when she had asked him he had blushed awkwardly, pushed his glasses up and said he hadn't done gynecology since med school), and that meant she could get a check-up, whenever she went to the Avengers Tower. Like she was doing now. "I don't see why you wanted another one," Bruce said, "you were here last week. He looks good."

"I wanted to see him," she whispered, touching the screen as she watched James suck his thumb. She could see Steve's facial features already in her son and it made her wonder if he'll have any aspect of her. "Do you think he'll have the serum?"

"He should," Bruce said. "He should have both your serum and Steve's. What percentage I'm not sure and I won't know that until I draw some blood." She glared at Bruce and he flushed. "Look, I won't experiment on him, Tasha, but… at least let me draw some blood after he's born. Not a lot, he won't even know. If Erskine's formula can be passed on genetically, we should know… especially once it leaks that James is Steve's son." Bruce made a face. "Cause they won't even need James. They'll just need to get ahold of Steve and well…"

She huffed. "I get it," she said and turned her gaze back to the screen, watching as James waved his little hand. She smiled, tracing the image of his tiny fingers. "He's beautiful."

"Yeah, he's gonna look like a squashed beetroot when he's born." Bruce cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, I'm being cynical." Bruce moved the wand to get a better picture of James. "And how have you been?" he asked.

She closed her eyes with a long world-weary sigh. "Tired, sore. It's the last leg and I'm already ready for this to be over." She smiled despite it all. She frowned, biting her lip and debated if she should tell Bruce about yesterday. She had minor bouts of worry and anxiety during her pregnancy, but it was normal things: what would giving birth be like, would she recognize a contraction when it happened, would her baby like her, would she be a good mother, could she do this? Yesterday was different. "Yesterday I… I thought the Red Room was coming back for me. I had a dream that my old instructor took James and forced me to shoot Steve." She looked away, studying the equipment in the room, listening to the hum of the ultrasound machine. She looked at the screen when James's head came into view. She smiled at her baby, hoping that the dream was just that, a dream. "Is that normal?"

"I wouldn't say it's normal," Bruce said, "pregnant women can have really weird dreams. The hormone changes, along with the physical and the growing attachment to the baby all lead to unique dreams." He rubbed his nose. "Also, you have to factor in you do have PTSD, well managed as it is. This could lead to prenatal anxiety."

"I haven't had any symptoms of PTSD in years and ever since Betty took over the mental health management for us, I've—"

"I know, Tasha," Bruce said, "but like any mental health issue, you go without displaying symptoms for years and then it pops up again. You'll always have PTSD, you're just more willing to work with the therapy available than Steve is. That's all." Bruce nodded at the screen. "Look, he's waving at his mommy."

"Hi baby," she whispered, touching the screen. "Will it happen again?"

"Possibly. A lot of anti-anxiety meds don't mix well with pregnancy, so the best thing I can tell you to do is relax, don't worry and if you feel anxious or something talk to Steve. And if it gets real bad, leave. Have him take you somewhere, go for a walk."

"Bucky's gonna stay with us until the end."

"Speaking of the end," Bruce said, "I want you to relocate to the Tower no later than the end of February. I'm not expecting you to go into labour before the scheduled C-section, but on the off-chance you might, I rather you be two floors down from medical rather than an hour and half away."

"I'll tell Steve, I'm sure he'll agree." She smiled, still trying to wrap her head around the fact that in a few months she'll be a mother and she'll hold James in her arms. The door behind Bruce hissed open; Steve and Tony walked in. She smiled at Steve and gave Tony a nod.

"So, this is the little Caplet," Tony said, leaning forward, resting his hands on his knees. "Yeah, I'm sorry. Not seeing the family resemblance." She glared at him, wondering why Tony insisted on following Steve in here. He never shown any interest in viewing the sonograms before.

"It's an ultrasound image, Tony, it's not the best quality," Steve said, "and don't call my son Caplet."

"Why not? He's your kid, gonna throw your mighty shield one he's grown up" — Tony mimed throwing the shield — "though he is Tasha's boy so… he could be like her instead. All deadly spider-y-ness." She rolled her eyes. "I got it. Capling."

"No, Tony, he's not even born." Steve rubbed his face. She sighed as Bruce switched the machine off and handed her a paper towel to wipe the jelly from her belly. She agreed with Steve, James didn't need a dumb nickname. "His name is James."

"Should've gone with Anthony. Lovely name. I know, it's mine." Tony leaned against a wall. "But think about it Steve. Capling is perfect. Baby spiders are spiderlings, he _is_ a baby spider — cause his mother's one — and he's Captain America's son, so he's an honorary captain—"

"That's not how military ranks work," Steve protested. She reached for him and he took a step forward to help her sit up. He rubbed her back with his hand and she smiled, enjoying his touch.

"So, you put the two together and boom!" Tony clapped his hands. "Capling." He grinned, impressed with his own logic. She rolled her eyes and shimmied off the bed. Steve was at her side and she had a death grip on his bicep.

"Bruce you made the bed too high again, I can barely touch the ground with my toes," she said, allowing Steve to mollycoddle her (eve if it vexed her that he did it in front of their friends). She dug her nails into his arm as she found her balance again.

"Do you think Pepper would like a baby?" Tony asked as she gathered up her purse. She arched a brow, surprised Tony even brought it up. She could see Pepper being a mother but could not picture Tony being a father. In her opinion: he was still too egoistical. She snorted at the notion. She handed Steve her purse as he picked up her coat.

"You have to marry her first, Tony," Steve said, holding her coat for her as she slipped her arms in. "Then you talk about babies. Doesn't work the other way around." She smiled when he kissed her head and handed her purse back to her.

Tony made a face. "Anyway, Tasha, Steve told me about your neighbour problem. I'll be by tomorrow to fix everything." He grinned at her. "The theme should a piece of cake."

"Tony," she asked, her voice low in warning, "what do you plan to do to my house?" She didn't need a disaster and she was pretty sure she and Steve could out do Ginger by themselves. "I don't want a mess and I don't want Ginger to know who we are. To everyone else, Steve's a mild manner veteran that works at West Point and I'm his computer geek wife that heads up Stark Industries cybersecurity division."

"And how did you—"

"Pepper." She gave him a sweet smile. "I expect to keep that façade in place. Nobody knows that Captain America and Black Widow have a quiet life in the New York suburbs." She draped her arm over the top of her belly, feeling average and normal with Steve be her side, his arm over her shoulders.

"If you want to win this thing, you must let me do it my way," Tony said. "Besides, I thought Steve here was going to talk to Hill about getting the Angry Cookie Mom relocated?"

She snorted a giggle at that. "Angry Cookie Mom?" she grinned. "Alright, fine. Nothing too over the top, just enough for me to win this stupid trophy she gets every year." She ran her hand over her belly, James fluttering about. Bucky appeared outside, looking uncomfortable and awkward, torn between wanting to go in and remaining outside. "Can you do that?"

"Tell me no secrets and I'll tell you no lies," Tony said. "Don't worry, everything will be fine. Pick up lights while you're at it. A lot of lights."

"We will," Steve said as they headed out of the medical wing and greeted Bucky. "You know you could've come in."

Bucky shook his head. "Nah. Don't really like… medical wings," he said, rubbing his left arm. She wondered if he had feeling in the metal limb, she knew the motor function mirrored that of a real arm, but she never had the heart to ask him if he could feel with it. She imagined he couldn't considering she had seen him block bullets with his hand. "You two ready to go?" he asked. "How's the little guy?" he asked, his right hand resting on her belly. She smiled as she watched Bucky's eyes widen when he felt the baby kick.

"Healthy, perfect. Bruce said he has some growing left to do then he'll put on weight before he's born," she said, smiling at Steve. Bliss washed over her when Steve dropped a kiss to her forehead. Thirteen years ago, when Clint pulled her from the Red Room, she would have never imagined that one day she'll be married and pregnant. If someone had to her this was her future, she would have laughed. Yet, here she was, and she wouldn't trade it for the world.

"That's great," Bucky said. "I'm happy for both of you." He patted her belly. "Well, let's get going." He turned and started heading to the elevator. "I brought my bag down to the car already."

She watched Steve's friend for a moment. "Did you tell Bruce about what happened yesterday?" Steve asked, leading her and she followed. He kept his arm around her shoulders, making sure she remained close. She leaned against him, content.

"Yeah. He told me that because of my PTSD, I could have a higher chance of prenatal anxiety."

"And?"

"Told me to relax and keep calm, and if you have to take me away." She smiled up at him. "You're gonna be home more right? I mean it's almost Christmas." They reached the elevator and Steve pressed the button to call it. Bucky was leaning against the opposite wall. "I can't imagine Tony'll want you to test more things."

"I'll be home more," he said. "And if I have to go, you'll have Bucky."

"Bucky isn't you," she murmured. "No offense, Bucky, but—"

"None taken, I know you want your baby daddy close." He winked at Steve. She glanced at Steve, who frowned.

"I thought that term was used for children born out of wedlock," he said, pressing the button again. "Damn elevator."

"Language, Stevie, tiny ears are close," Bucky said, nodding at her belly. She smiled, running her hand over it. "He can hear right?"

"He can, but I don't think he hears the same way you and I do. I know he recognizes my voice and Steve's," she said, feeling James flutter. He always did whenever they talked, as if he wanted in on the conversation. The elevator doors open and they went in, Bucky using his metal arm to prevent the doors from closing too soon. The doors slid shut; she leaned against Steve with a sigh, a smile on her face when he kissed the top of her head.

"Tired?" he asked, his voice soft.

"A little."

"Don't worry, we just have to stop off at the hardware store and buy the Christmas lights for Tony and then we'll go home," he said. She nodded, leaning into him and wondering what Tony had planned for the theme.

* * *

The house felt packed and she wasn't sure if she liked it or not. She could hear Tony and Sam on the roof, banging away at whatever mad idea Tony had for the Christmas light competition. She was in the kitchen, with Laura and Pepper, making finger food and talking about everything baby (which she was starting to get bored of), and funneling bottles of beer into the living room for Clint, Steve and Bucky as they watched the tv. It was _Die Hard_ , and she was still surprised that Laura and Clint let Cooper watch it. Lila was in the kitchen with them, helping her mom make Christmas cookies. Steve came in, smiling and kissed her. "Doing okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, leaning back to check the jalapeño poppers. "You sure Tony doesn't need you outside?"

"He said he wants Bucky and I to lift the heavy stuff but since that's not happening yet, he wants us on standby." Steve frowned. "I should go out and check how he and Sam are doing, it's getting dark. I should get the flood light." He headed to the garage, muttering to himself. Pepper and Laura chuckled.

"He's a goof sometimes," Laura said. She smiled, nodding. "He's gonna make a great dad."

"All the women in my Lamaze class are jealous," she said, "they all want a husband like him. Steve tries to give pointers to their husbands, but nobody can compare to Steve. He's just… a good man."

"Why are you doing a Lamaze class, I thought you're having a C-section?" Pepper asked as she whipped up a dipping sauce for the poppers and poured some chips into a bowl, mixing it with shredded cheese. Pepper often joked she doesn't get to play domestic much anymore, but there was a time when she cooked her own meals.

"Bruce wanted me to take one, as a fall back if I go into labour before March 9th or on that day. He said my due date is kinda sketchy considering everything I had to go through to get to this point." She patted her belly, smiling when she felt James move.

"He's moving, isn't he?" Laura gave he a knowing smile. "I can tell. I had that same look whenever I felt Lila or Cooper move. It's special." She sighed wistfully. "Clint and I have been talking about having another baby."

"Oh?" Natasha cocked her brow. She figured Clint and Laura were done having children. They already had Lila and Cooper, she couldn't fathom that they wanted to add a third child.

"Tony's been nagging me about babies too, ever since he saw the ultrasound image," Pepper said. "So, you know what he did last night?" Pepper was giddy, a wide smile on her face and she was almost bouncing with the need to tell them. Natasha smiled, remembering when she first told Steve about this pregnancy, she could barely contain her excitement.

"Mommy, can I turn the mixer on?" Lila asked, hopping up and down in her pretty pink apron, pulling everyone's attention away from Pepper. "Please?" Laura peered into the bowl and nodded. "Yay!" Lila turned the switch on and the machine whirled into life. "You're gonna have some cookies too, right, Auntie Nat?" Lila asked.

"Wouldn't miss your cookies for the world, just remember to save some for Santa," she said, running her hand up and down Lila's back. It was easy to imagine James in a few years, helping in the kitchen during Christmas, wanting to be just like his daddy. She looked to the window, hearing some commotion outside; Steve was yelling and Tony was yelling back and there was a bloom of white light.

"Okay!" Lila chirped, looking at the mixing bowl. She watched it for a bit before holding up the cookie cutters. "Do you think Santa would like reindeer cookies or Christmas tree cookies?" she asked. "Auntie Nat!"

"Hmm?" she turned away from the window to look at the little girl. "What sweetheart?" she asked. Lila gave a long suffering sigh and held up the two cookie cutters.

"Reindeer cookies or Christmas tree cookies?" she asked. "Which one do you think Santa would like better?"

Natasha tapped her lip. "Hm. I think Santa would like both!" she tweaked Lila's nose. "So, make both and we can decorate them."

"Who's going to play Santa?" Laura asked, as she mixed the icing for the cookies. "The dough's reading Lila. Turn the mixer off and we can start rolling it out." Lila squealed, reaching for the switch on the mixer. "And watch your fingers."

"Okay, Mommy."

"Who normally plays Santa?" Pepper asked, as she pulled the poppers out and put the bowl of chips and cheese in. "Tony would probably want to make an Iron Santa suit or something." She smirked. "He proposed to me last night."

"He what?" Natasha almost dropped the plates she was carrying. She set them down and went over to Pepper, who held out her left hand to show off the stylish engagement ring. She and Laura oohed and awed over it. "That's a beautiful ring."

"It's lovely, Pepper, oh congratulations!" Laura hugged her. "I'm so happy for you and Tony. When's the wedding?"

"This summer, we haven't set a date yet, but we're thinking having it in Malibu," she said. "You're all invited of course. We'll fly everyone out."

"I'm not sure if James'll be old enough to fly," Natasha said, in a low murmur. She wasn't sure how she and Steve would adjust to life as parents or if they'd want to take their baby across country so soon.

"Nat, it's in the summer," Laura said, "you can fly with your baby two weeks after he's born. Plus, this is months after James'll be born. You'll be fine."

"And it's a private jet. Nothing to worry about," Pepper added. "Tony would be upset if you two miss our wedding."

"Wedding?" Clint asked. "There's another wedding?" he looked between the women. "Poppers done?"

"Right here," Laura said, handing over a plate full of them. "Is Bucky still in the room?" she asked.

"Nah. He went out with Steve when Steve went to bring out the flood light. I guess they're still out there." Clint turned to the living room. "Coop. Poppers and cheese sticks are done." Clint loaded a plate with marinara sauce and cheese sticks. Cooper trotted in. Natasha was surprised how big the boy had grown since last year. Cooper almost came up to Clint's armpit. "Here. Don't fill up on this stuff, your Uncle Steve's gonna make chicken wings once he's done helping Uncle Tony." He took his plate of poppers and went back to the couch with his son. Laura rolled her eyes and followed them with a beer bottle in one hand and a can of ginger ale in the other.

"Oh, I need to get the chicken out," she said and opened the fridge, pulling out the six packages of chicken wings. She brought them over to the sink and began washing them, dumping them into a large bowl. She looked up when she heard clunking on the roof and more shouting.

"I was thinking Steve can play Santa this year," Laura said, as she came back from the living room. She smiled at Pepper and Lila, the little girl busy cutting the cookies. "I have a costume, it should fit him."

"I'll ask," Natasha said, grimacing as the cold water numbed her hands. Laura joined her at the sink. "Thanks."

"Did you buy out all the chicken wings at the grocery store?" she asked, eyeing the packs of chicken. Natasha laughed. "Because holy moly."

"Just about, Steve and Bucky can eat a dozen in one sitting. Super soldier metabolism, and I can eat a lot, because I'm pregnant with a super soldier."

"He has the serum?" Laura asked, nodding at her belly. She shrugged.

"I think so. He kicks hard enough and he's pretty active." She smiled. "Steve said that the serum effected all his cells, and I'm sure the Red Room serum they used on me did the same. Bruce said we won't know for sure until he takes a blood sample. We could probably know sooner by testing the amniotic fluid, but he doesn't want to risk it. So we'll wait until he's born and let Bruce take his blood sample." She shook her hands, having gotten through a pack and a half of chicken. "I need to get Steve in here otherwise he'll be frying chicken wings all night." She rinsed her hands and dried them. "You don't mind taking over do you?"

Laura looked over at Lila and Pepper. "Yeah, I'll finish these up. Go get them otherwise Cooper and Clint will eat all the poppers."

"I heard that," Clint said from the living room. She and Laura laughed. She walked out of the kitchen, pausing at the door to grab her coat and slip on her shoes before heading outside. It was dusk, the western sky fiery orange and golden yellow with purplish indigo bearing down. She couldn't see many stars, just a prick or two of pale white light. Their neighbourhood was decorated with tacky blown up figures of the Avengers wearing Santa hats (one even featured Steve but his shield was red and green with a Christmas tree in the middle). She couldn't deny that it was rather festive and goofy, but in a fun carefree way that brought a smile to her face.

"Hey honey, whatcha doing out here?" Steve called from the room. She turned around, hands tucked into her armpits and her mouth fell open. Christmas lights outlined her house and atop the roof were animatronics versions of the entire Avengers team (including Thor and his Yule goat). Black Widow, Hawkeye and Iron Man were in a sleigh, while Captain America and Hulk pulled it and Thor led the way with his goat tucked under his arm.

"Tony, what did you do to my house?" she shrieked. Tony appeared, grinning like a loon. "What do you expect us to do with this once Christmas is over?"

"I'll take care of it Tasha," Tony said. "What do you think?" he surveyed his handiwork. "They even move and sing."

"I think we'll win," Steve said. "Nat, are you…"

She shook her head, rolling her eyes. "And what are these two on the lawn?" she asked, pointing to two more decorations. They weren't brightly lit like the ones on the roof. Tony smirked, pulling out a controller and hitting a button. She yelped, taking a step back, her hand on her belly as the two decorations came to life.

"Falcon and War Machine," Tony said. "Can't have the Avengers without these two."

She watched as Falcon's wings moved up and down, and War Machine's head turned side to side. Both wore Santa hats and carried a present. "Steve, you need to come in and start the wings," she said.

"Oh." He looked around.

"Go on, Bird Man, Manchurian Candidate and I got this," Tony said. Bucky and Sam grumbled about their nicknames. Steve nodded and walked to the edge of the roof.

"Steve, no, don't" — he jumped off the roof, landing in a low crouch with a grunt — "jump of the roof."

"Why? Nobody out here but us," he said, wincing a little as the impact faded from his feet. He kissed her. "Let's go back inside and I'll start cooking. How are the cookies coming?"

"Fine, and Laura wants you to play Santa later."

"Uh… okay?" he looked at his middle. "Think I may be a little lean for Jolly Ol' St. Nick, though."

"We can tie pillows to you," she said, patting his stomach with a chuckle as he opened the door. "You know," she said, walking into the garage. "Bruce was right."

"Huh?" he gave her a moonstruck look. "Right about what?"

"Remember back in 2012, when we got caught beneath some mistletoe during Tony's Christmas party?"

He frowned, thinking about it for a moment. "Oh, yeah." He smiled. "I said I could damn well kiss my own dame" — he nudged her — "and I did."

"You did, and Bruce said that German tradition says that a couple that kisses beneath the mistletoe will end up being married. Now look at us."

"Married and with a baby on the way," he said, smiling and rested his hand on her belly. "I can't believe it. Sometimes it doesn't even feel real."

"Oh, it's real. He kicks hard, definitely your son." She smiled. "You never explained to me what you meant by fondued." She said, stopping at the door that led from the garage to the interior of the house. He flushed, and they could hear lively chatter through the door. She shivered a little. "Well?"

"When I went to rescue Bucky from the Hydra camp near Azzaro, Howard and Peggy went with me — well not with me with me, Howard flew the plane and Peggy was there to tell me what I needed to know. Anyway, Howard asked her if she wanted to get some fondue and I had no idea what fondue was, so I thought it meant" — he flushed and made a vague gesture to her stomach; she cocked a brow — "uh… sex." His ears and cheeks turned pink. "Peggy rolled her eyes when I asked her if she and Howard fondued. Come to think of it she always rolled her eyes when I said something obtuse like that." He chuckled. "You do the same." He gave her a boyish half smile.

"Ah, so that's what you meant by fondue," she said. "C'mon, those chicken wings won't fry themselves." She opened the door and entered the kitchen. By the looks of it Laura had started frying the wings, the cookies were cooling on a few racks and Pepper was in the process of making another round of nachos. Lila was nowhere in the kitchen, but she heard a grunt and the little girl appeared.

"Auntie Nat! Auntie Nat! Come and watch Rudolph!" Lila said, tugging her hand. She looked over at Steve.

"Go sit down Nat, I'll bring some food over to you," he said. She smiled at Lila and allowed the little girl to lead her to the couch. She sat down with a groan next to Clint.

"You okay?" he asked. She smiled patting her belly.

"Just fine," she said, lifting her arm up so Lila could snuggle next to her. She smiled down at Lila, who put a small hand on her belly. "Saying hi to your cousin James?" she asked, taking Lila's hand and putting on the spot where she could feel James move. Lila's eyes grew wide and she gasped a little wow when she felt the baby move. Rudolph had joined the other reindeer in their games, but was soon outed for having a red nose and thus bullied.

"He's moving," Lila whispered. Natasha smiled, running her hand through Lila's hair. "Does it feel weird?" she asked.

"When it first started it did, but now not so much," she said. Lila nodded, rubbing little circles. "You're going to be a good big cousin to James, right?"

"Yeah, I'll be better than Cooper," Lila said, "he's not a good big brother. He's mean to me." Natasha glanced at Clint who rolled his eyes and shoved another popper into his mouth.

"Oh, I doubt that. He loves you," she said, looking at Cooper, who was seated between his dad's feet, a can of ginger ale in his hand.

"Maybe. But he yanked the head off my Barbie last week and tried to get me to play with him like that. I was so mad!" Lila's lower lip jutted out in a pout. "Daddy told him off though and made him apologize."

"I see," she said, looking at Clint.

"Kids fight," he said. "Popper?" he offered the plate. She grabbed a few cheese sticks. "Or cheese sticks, doesn't matter to me."

"Will James be strong like Uncle Steve?" Lila asked. Natasha smiled, looking over at Steve, mixing the wings that Laura had finished. She could see Steve and James working together in the kitchen, Steve teaching their boy the recipes his mother made, one generation's love passed down to the next like an unbreakable chain. She ate a cheese stick.

"Yes," she said, once she finished swallowing. "I think he'll be strong like Uncle Steve and have a big heart like him too."

"Good, I like Uncle Steve," Lila said. Natasha smiled. "I'm glad you married him, Auntie Nat."

"I'm glad I married him too." She looked up when Steve came over with a platter of wings. "Right, honey?"

"Huh?" he blinked. "Hey, Lila. Haven't seen you all day." He ruffled the little girl's hair. "You been behaving for your mom and dad? Been a good girl for Santa?" He winked and Lila nodded.

"I have!" she said. She shot a glare at Cooper. "Cooper hasn't, so that means he gets coal in his stocking!"

"Hey, I've been good, twerp," Cooper said, reaching for one of the throw pillows on the ground. Clint nudged him with his foot. "Ow."

"No throwing things, we have food and a pregnant lady with us," Clint said, "and Lila, stop antagonizing your brother or I'll call Santa and tell him to bring you both coal." The two children gasped and settled down at the thought of not having Santa visit them. Natasha chuckled and took some wings, turning her attention back to the tv, where Rudolph and his friends found the Island of Misfit Toys. She always did like the Misfit Toys, feeling a sort of kinship with them.

"Thanks," she said. "What flavor?"

"Honey and cracked pepper," Steve said and kissed her head. "And yes, I'm glad I married you too." He looked up at the ceiling. "I should tell them that the wings are ready, get them inside. They should be finished."

She nodded, munching on the chicken. Laura came over with another platter of chicken, this one coated in Steve's special spicy sauce. Clint dug in with gusto. "Steve, you need to tell Laura what goes into this sauce, it's excellent."

Steve laughed. "Sorry, but I can't. Captain America's secret, classified, you don't have a high enough clearance."

"Spoil sport," Clint grumbled, licking his fingers. "Do you know Nat?" he asked. She smirked around mouthful of food.

"He doesn't tell me anything," she said, after she swallowed. "The kitchen is Steve's domain." She munched on another wing and gave a surprised grunt when James gave her a hard kick. She rubbed the abused spot on her belly, looking up when she heard clunking on the roof and the creak of the metal ladder. A few minutes later: Tony, Bucky and Sam came in. Tony was beaming, Sam and Bucky made their way to the kitchen, Pepper holding two plates piled with nachos and wings for them.

"It's done. If you don't win I'll be personally offended," Tony said, coming over to the couch. "You'll have that stupid trophy on your mantel and Ginger can eat out of your palm for the next year." He glanced at her belly. "May I?" he asked. She nodded, and Tony placed his hand on her belly. "He's moving. Like an alien. Sure, it's not a chest-buster?"

She rolled her eyes and swallowed her mouthful of chicken. "I'm sure Tony. I'm very much pregnant with a human child." She smiled when Steve came over with some milk for her. "Thanks honey." She took the glass, sipping it.

"Tony, you want food?" Steve asked. Tony stood up, patting her shoulder.

"Of course," he said. "I'm feeling peckish after everything. Hey, you got any beer?" he asked, heading into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator door and pulling out a bottle of beer. He took his plate from Pepper and found a spot at the table to sit. "Do you have a bottle opener, Tasha?" Tony asked.

"Uh—"

"You mean yours doesn't twist off?" Bucky asked, mock surprise in his voice. "Have you tried? Just give it a twist."

"Don't listen to him Tony. He's done this to me before. They both have," Sam said. "I hate it when you guys do it too."

"Steve always buys twist tops, right?" Bucky asked. Steve grinned and sat next to her. Lila smiled at him as she moved to make room for him to sit down. The little girl gave Natasha's belly a pat and went to snuggle against her father's side. Laura brought her children over some chicken wings.

"Yep." He took his own beer bottle and twisted the cap off. She rolled her eyes. "Twist tops Tony."

"Y'know, I'm trying and all I'm doing it hurting my hand." Tony grumbled as Bucky tried to hide his laughter. "Are you sure these are twist tops?"

"I wish you wouldn't do that," she told Steve as he took a long swallow from his bottle. "It's mean."

"And he never plays pranks on me?" Steve asked, arching a brow. "Really, Nat. It's harmless fun. If I recall you used to find it funny."

"Joke got old real fast Steve, besides you're going to be a father soon. What type of example will you be setting for James? You can't just play mean-spirited pranks on your friends. James will pick up on that."

"Last I check, James is nestled safe inside you" — she glowered at him — "why are you suddenly grumpy? I thought you were in a good mood."

"I _am_ in a good mood, just because I ask you to stop being a jerk doesn't mean I'm grumpy."

"If I try to twist any more Steve, I'm gonna cut my hand," Tony said. She glared at Steve, jerking her head in Tony's direction. Steve pouted.

"Bottle opener's in the silverware drawer," he said. She heard Pepper get it, and Tony express delight at finally getting his beer open.

"That was a mean trick," Tony said, coming to loom over them from behind couch. "And after I made sure your wife's gonna win this stupid Christmas light contest." Tony tried to wiggle his finger into Steve's ear. Steve mimed punching Tony in the dick. "Hey, easy. I wanna have spawn one day."

"Did you such refer to our future children as _spawn_?" Pepper asked. Tony grimaced and went over to his fiancée, telling her he was only joking about calling their kids spawn. Natasha quirked a smile, setting her empty plate to the side. The movie had ended, the credits rolling and the channel announcer informing them that the next movie would be _The Year Without a Santa Clause_. She leaned against Steve, who slipped his arm around her and gave her a squeeze.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, dropping a kiss to her head. "I didn't know it bothered you that much."

"It's fine," she said. "I guess I'm tired. Didn't get my afternoon nap." She pressed herself closer to him. He was warm and solid, comforting. He made a little humming sound in the back of his throat and tilted her head up to peck her lips. She could taste the hops from his beer on his lips and she slipped her tongue into his mouth to try and get more of the forbidden taste. He grunted in surprised. "Sorry," she mumbled, once they broke apart.

"Don't be." He cuddled her. "Why don't you take a nap, I'll wake you up when the judging starts."

"But—"

"Go on, nobody is going to say anything," he said nudging her. "I don't mind." Mrs. Claus had sent the two elves, Jingle and Jangle, down to the United States in an effort to find some Christmas spirit and belief in Santa.

She nodded, pillowing her head against his shoulder. "Okay," she said, allowing her eyes to droop. She felt Steve's chuckle.

"I was thinking you head to our room and sleep there."

She shook her head. "Nope. Too far. Don't wanna walk." She quirked a smile. "Besides you make a nice pillow."

"Well, your pillow is getting up, he wants more chicken wings," Steve said and stood to get more food. "Don't worry, I'll be back." He went into the kitchen to refill his plate. She chuckled, closing her eyes again, her hands on her belly and a smile on her face whenever she felt James move. She was almost asleep when Steve sat down again, but all she did was snuggle against him once he got comfortable and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

She woke about an hour later, Steve's handsome face greeting her. She was grateful that her nap was dreamless. "Is it time?" she asked. He nodded.

"Yeah. Don't worry, we got the kitchen all in order. Everyone else is outside," he said, taking her hand. "Ready?"

"Gimme a moment, Rogers," she said, grunting as she shifted her awkward body into a better position to get out of the couch. Steve pulled her out of the seat, and she held on to him until she got her balance. "Alright, let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

"Hopefully we win this year," he grumbled, helping her into her coat. They walked to the door, his hand on the small of her back. She stopped, staring at the door and envisioning the crowd of people: their friends and family, Ginger and her family, the other neighbours they barely knew, the mothers asking her about her pregnancy and when she's due and all the other typical questions people bombard a pregnant woman with. She didn't want to go out there. That anxiety she had earlier this week crept up her spine and she glanced around at the shadows, making sure nobody from her past was lurking within.

"Steve, I… uh… I don't wanna go out." She pulled away from him. He frowned, and she stared at the beige carpet. It was dirty from all the foot traffic and she hadn't had time to vacuum in forever. It bothered her that her house wasn't clean, that Bucky had to help set up the Den downstairs for Clint and Laura and their kids for tonight. She knew she shouldn't, none of this should bother her, she was pregnant after all and Bruce did want her to take it easy. But it did, and it annoyed her.

"You okay?" Steve asked, worry in his tone and on his face. "You've been hoping to win this stupid thing all year. Not showing up would give Ginger—"

"I know, and I don't care, Steve," she said, her voice shaky. Get it together, Nat, you're Black Widow, you shouldn't be crying over stupid things like this and — she hiccupped, trying to stave off tears. "I just… I don't want to go out. I'm not feeling well." She struggled out of her coat. She heard him sigh and help her. "I'm going to shower and go to bed, alright?"

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, giving her a helpless look. It broke her heart; he was so used to fixing things, correcting situations when they go south, that when she got like this — moody and emotional — he felt powerless to fix it. Women these days act like they didn't need a man to fix their problems, but she learned through Steve that it was almost instinctual for a man to fix a problem for a woman, not because they viewed them as helpless (and Steve knew she was far from helpless) but because it was something primal. She shook her head and his shoulders slumped. "Okay, uh… well, feel better." He kissed her cheek and headed outside. She nodded and went upstairs. She took a shower and brushed her teeth. She fluffed her mountain of pillows before getting into bed but couldn't sleep. She kept hearing the annoying song Tony had programmed the figures to sing: _"Grandma got run over by a reindeer! Walking home from our house Christmas Eve."_ And she sat up when she heard fireworks go whistling off into the sky. In the end, she gave up on sleep and went to the nursery.

She turned the light on, looking around the room, the carpet new and springy beneath her bare feet, the walls painted a pale blue with cute dinosaur decorations. A small Captain America night light was beneath the window. To her left was the mahogany crib she picked out with Pepper, good for newborns to two years of age. It was a good sturdy crib with a slot for the baby monitor. The mattress was soft yet springy and she had bought a sheet with the Avengers on it.

Opposite the crib was the matching changing table, with drawers for diapers and diaper wipes and diaper powder and anything else she thinks would help change her baby's diaper. A trash can with an automatic lid stood next to the table, it's silvery chrome finishing contrasting with the soft colors of the room. And in the corner by the window was a rocking chair for her to nurse James and opposite the rocking chair was a small bookshelf. Baby books filled the shelves and on top sat a small collection of stuffed animals. She went over and picked up the little blue elephant she bought years ago and sat down in the rocking chair, running her thumb along the elephant's soft ear.

She bought the elephant after getting back from Russia after Shield fell. It was just sitting there on the shelf in a toy store she wandered into and finding it cute, purchased it. It was meant for a son she (at the time) thought she'll never have and so it went into her box. Along with all the other baby items she had collected ever since Clint pulled her from the Red Room. She had always wanted a boy, so most of the items she had collected now found new homes in the nursery. Yet, she felt wrong… as if she shouldn't be this lucky, as if something will happen to her or Steve or — heaven forbid — James. The Red Room told her she had no place, no future, no past, no present. She was a weapon, a shadow among many. They broke her down, experimented on her, remade her into their perfect weapon. How could a person like her be a good mother?

Last month, word got out to the public that she was pregnant and one of the news anchors accused her of being irresponsible and if she had a decent bone in her body she'd give the baby away to some nice family in the Midwest. Her life was too dangerous, too uncertain to raise a child. Many other anchors and women and "leading experts on child development" (hell even some big-name celebrities weighed in. God, she hated _The View_ and how they verbally eviscerated her) seconded that opinion, all saying she should have gotten an abortion or give the child up to a safer and more stable family. In the court of public opinion, she was a bad mother, simply because she was Black Widow. She had tentatively brought the idea up to Steve and she had never been so thankful for his quick refusal and reassurance.

"Don't do this to yourself," Clint said, snapping her from her thoughts. She flushed, pressing the elephant close to her chest.

"Where's Steve?" she asked as Clint came in to look at the nursery. "Did we win?"

"You should've seen the look on Ginger's face," he said, squatting down to read the book titles. "The woman looked like she swallowed a lemon. Her husband is a wimp and had the gall to try and give her the trophy, but Tony stepped in and nixed that idea." He stood up and patted her shoulder. "So, congrats on being the best lit house."

"Yippee," she said, rolling her eyes and setting the elephant back on the bookshelf. "Tony and Pepper went home?"

"Uh-huh. Tony took the trophy to fix the engraving. Said he'll bring it back tomorrow." Clint looked her up and down. "Steve's with Laura getting dressed as Santa."

"Oh, right, we were going to open a present after that. Sam still here?" she asked. Clint shook his head. "Ah." She smoothed the nightgown over her belly. "He said he had plans for tomorrow anyway. Spending time with his family."

"Yeah, but you know him. He'll be back."

She nodded, looking around the nursery again and wondering if James will like it, only to chide and remind herself that James will be too little to care. She could've painted the room vomit green and he wouldn't care. "We better head down."

"Are you okay?" Clint asked. She pursed her lips into a frown. "Look, I know Steve asks you that ten times a day, but you kept going on about this stupid competition and you missed it and I find you sitting in here looking about ready to cry." He put a hand on her shoulder. "I know pregnant women can be hormonal and the water works come like lightning bolts, but if something's bothering you Nat, talk to Steve. And if you don't want to tell him then tell me."

"It's nothing Clint. I've just had some… worries," she muttered.

"Natasha."

"It's nothing. I'm fine."

"If it's about what those people said last month—"

"They're still saying it Clint. Everyone knows about my past since Shield fell and they are using that to judge my fitness to be a mother. And I've been worrying about the Red Room finding me and—" she stopped, running a hand through her hair. "What if they're right."

"Well, they're wrong," he said. "They haven't seen you with Lila and Cooper. They don't know that I trust you a hundred and ten percent around my kids. They don't know that I've let you babysit them when Laura and I needed a weekend to ourselves. They don't know 'Auntie Nat'." He put a hand on her shoulder and squeeze. "And that's only with my kids. James is _your_ son. You're gonna be an excellent mother, Nat."

"But what if the Red Room—"

"Nat, I won't let the Red Room hurt you again, and I know Steve won't let them hurt you either. They aren't going to hurt you, they aren't going to get James. Steve and I won't let that happen. And I'm sure the others will be right there with us in that sentiment. Now, c'mon. Smile. Let's go down and open a present or two before bed. Laura should be done dressing up Steve as Santa."

"Okay," she said and put the little elephant back. "You think he's gonna like it?"

"I think that elephant will be his favorite toy," he said, "c'mon, I don't want Laura yelling for me because Lila and Cooper can't sit still for five minutes." She chuckled following him downstairs to the couch.

Lila and Cooper were trembling with excitement, eyes fixed on Steve who looked awkward in the Santa costume, the pillows noticeable beneath the coat. It didn't help that his pecs and biceps bulged out beneath the costume creating a weird image of a buff Santa trying to be fat. "Next time, dear, let's just go with a buff Santa," Clint whispered to Laura as they sat down. Natasha smiled. Steve's cheeks were pink beneath the fake beard, but whether it was from embarrassment or he was too warm, she couldn't tell. Lila and Cooper kept eyeing the sack he held and shook with their excitement. "I think we're ready Santa," Clint said.

Steve muttered a curse and cleared his throat. "Uh… Ho ho ho, 'tis I! Santa Claus." He went up to Lila and Cooper first. "Ha'e ye been good fer yer mam an' da?" he asked, his words coated with a thick Irish accent. "Cause if ye ha'e been, I got somethin' fer both o' ye."

"I have! I have!" Lila shouted, jumping up and down on the couch. "I've been good, all year!" She glanced at her parents. "I have!"

"Lila, sit down," Laura said. Lila sat, rubbing her hands together in excitement. Steve looked at Cooper.

"What 'bout ye?" he asked. "Ye been good?"

"Yeah," Cooper said, and looked over at his dad. Clint nodded, encouraging him to play along. "I've been real good, Santa."

"Ho ho ho! I think I ha'e somethin' in my sack!" Steve opened the sack dug out two wrapped boxes. "One fer th' lil lass" — he handed Lila her gift, and the little girl ripped the paper with gusto — "and for the wee lad."

"I'm not a 'wee lad'— Ow!" Cooper rubbed his ear, shooting a glare at his father. Clint gave him a look and Cooper accepted the present with a thank you and began to tear at the paper. Lila shrieked so loud that Nat covered her ears in surprise at the noise.

"Mommy! Daddy! It's the Unicorn Princess Doll with her pet unicorn!" Lila shouted, jumping up and down on the couch. She hopped off and hugged Steve. "Thank you, Santa! Thank you!" She ran towards Natasha, but Clint caught her by the middle. "I wanna show Auntie Nat, Daddy."

"Settle down, Lila, remember Auntie Nat's pregnant," Clint said, glancing at her and she rolled her eyes at him as he let Lila go. Lila — grinning like a loon — came over and showed the box with the doll and toy horse.

"Oh wow, it's so pretty and sparkly," she said, taking the box from her niece. "I can see why you got it from Santa. It's really special."

"It is. Do you think I should let James play with it?" Lila asked. She smiled and kissed the little girl on her brow.

"James will have his own toys to play with, so he won't want to play with it." She smiled, smoothing Lila's hair. "Go give this to your dad so he can open it for you."

"Okay!" Lila went back over to her father and handed him the box. Clint sighed and went about getting the doll and toy horse out of the box.

"Whatcha get Cooper?" Natasha asked. Shyly, Cooper showed everyone the box. She arched a brow. "Slime ball dodge ball?" She wondered how that worked and what would happen once the slime balls popped. "Looks fun, you'll have to wait until summer to play."

"Gimme that Cooper, let's make sure this slime is washable first," Laura said, taking the box and reading about the toy. Steve handed Clint to packages, one for him and on for Laura and shuffled over to her. She smiled up at him.

"You really do look like Santa," she said, patting the pillows around the stomach. He chuckled. "Do you have anything for Mrs. Claus?" she asked, tugging the beard down so she could peck his lips without getting fake hair in her mouth. He hummed.

"I'm sure I got something for my best girl in here," he said and reached into the sack. She held her breath, wondering what Steve got her. He tended to shower her with gifts since Christmas was her birthday as well. She complained one year and now he figured out to sprinkle birthday gifts throughout December. He pulled out a mason jar filled with bits of paper and tied with a pretty candy cane pattern ribbon. She took it, arching her brow at the unusual gift.

"Wow, Steve," Clint said, "that's like… Depression era cheap." He poked the jar. "What's in there? Paper?"

"Shut it Barton," Steve said as he pulled the hat and beard off. "Damn it's warm," he said and pulled the pillows out from under the costume. "Next year, you're gonna be Santa." He set the pillows down on the floor and pulled the ottoman over next to her. "Do you like it?" he asked.

"I'm trying to figure out why you gave me a jar filled with paper," she said. He chuckled, a twinkle in his eye. She arched a brow and undid the ribbon, opening the jar. She pulled out the first slip of paper. "I love the way you think you can win on our morning runs." She looked at him. "What is this?" she asked. He gave her an imploring look, so she pulled out another. "I love how you kiss my forehead after—" she stopped flushing. "Steve, what are these?" she asked. She pulled out another. "I love wake up to you every morning."

"A sap jar?" Clint offered. She shot her best friend a glare and pulled out another one, smiling at what it said.

"No," Steve said, sounding hurt and a bit offended. "Fifty-two reasons why I love Nat. I wanted to get her something special this year because she's pregnant and… found this on the internet." He looked at his knees. "Thought it was nice. She could read them when she's feeling down."

"So… a sap jar."

"Clint," Laura hissed. "I think it's very sweet Steve. What about you, Nat?"

She didn't answer, holding the latest piece of paper: _I love you just the way you are, damaged and perfect._ Tears pricked at her eyes and her lip quivered. Damn pregnancy hormones. She took the bits of paper and shoved them back into the jar, twisting the lid on tight. "Thank you, Steve," she said, trying to keep her voice from breaking. She reached for him and he hugged her. She buried her face in his neck, sniffling. "This is the best Christmas gift I've ever gotten… thank you."

"You're welcome," he said and kissed her brow. "Merry Christmas, Nat" — he pulled away and gave her a boyish grin — "and Happy Day Before Your Birthday and Happy Anniversary."

"Oh right!" she laughed. "I forgot it was our anniversary." She watched him thumb her wedding ring. "Four years, huh."

"And going on strong." He winked, his hand going to her belly. Clint cleared his throat.

"I think it's getting late. Cooper, Lila, bed time. Hey, where's Bucky?" Clint asked. "Haven't seen him since the award thing."

"He went to bed," Steve said. "Christmas still… it's hard for him." He looked down and she knew he worried about his friend. Bucky had said that Fury was able to get most of the Hydra brainwashing out of his head but feared there could be lingers of it that they weren't aware of; so, Bucky withdrew whenever anything hit too close to the life he used to live. "Don't worry. I'll check on him. He'll be down for presents in the morning."

"Alright," Clint said, following Laura as they herded their children downstairs. "Night guys, see you in the morning." He turned off the lights on his way down to the Den.

"Night," she and Steve called. She looked at Steve as he sat down. He had that world-weary look on his face. She took his hand and kissed his palm. They sat there, in the soft glow of the Christmas tree and Christmas village, content in each other's presence. His large hand next to her smaller one on her belly, smiling whenever they felt their son move.

A door creaked, and they could hear soft footsteps coming their way. "Steve?" Bucky came out in his t-shirt and boxers, the lights gleaming off his metal arm. She and Steve looked over at Bucky.

"Hey Buck," Steve said. "Missed you for the Santa thing." Bucky gave a weird smile and sat down in front of them. "How you doing?"

"First Christmas I don't have a mission," he said, "feels weird." He smiled though. "Last time, I saw you get married."

"Yeah," Steve said, sounding wistful. He reached over and squeezed Bucky's shoulder. "Good to have you back, pal, wouldn't be Christmas without you."

"Thanks," Bucky said. "You know, I'm happy for both you and Natalia. Real happy. I never thought you'd have this Steve but… you do and both of you will make swell parents, and I'm honored that you decided to name your kid after me." Bucky wiped at his eyes. "Damn. Hate cryin' when I'm happy."

She laughed, wiping at her own eyes. "We're happy your home Bucky. Apart of our family," she said. Bucky nodded and pulled them both into a hug. "Just wait, you'll be holding your nephew soon enough." She said, putting his hand on her belly. "We all will."

"Merry Christmas, guys," Bucky said.

* * *

 _March 9_ _th_ _, 2020_

Natasha was glad she had a schedule C-section because she didn't think she could stand to wait until she went into labour. She felt like a beached whale. She couldn't see her toes, her back and ankles hurt her something fierce every day (no matter how long Steve gave her a massage). She felt like she had to pee every five minutes and she no longer walked, she waddled — like a damn penguin — around their suite in the Tower. They moved into the Tower after New Year — Sam agreed to house sit or them — and would stay at the Tower until she healed. True to his word, Steve did call Maria Hill and got Henry relocated to some tiny town in the Midwest. Sam had called her one day in February to gleefully tell her how Ginger was moving and complaining about it. She cackled in delight at the other woman's misery. Steve had looked at her funny, but she didn't care: she was Black Widow, she could be vindictive as hell if she wanted to be.

Besides her body becoming more and more alien to her, the last few months of her pregnancy flew by like a summer breeze. And she had no reason to expect that today wouldn't be simple either. Bruce had called around seven in the morning to inform them that the Tower's operating room was prepped and ready, he and a team of handpicked surgeons were ready and waiting. She just needed to get up two floors, get prepped, get the local anesthesia and have her baby.

Only problem with this easy plan was her husband. Steve was running around their room like a chicken without its head. "Where are my keys?" he said, flustered; anxious and excited. She was too, but she was Black Widow, so she hid it better than him. "Nat, have you seen my keys?" he asked, holding his keys, as he scratched his head. "I can't find my keys and I swore I just had them in my hand."

"Steve, forget the damn keys, we're not going to the hospital. The medical wing is all prepped. We just need to go up two floors," she said. She patted her belly, smiling when James gave her a little kick. He hadn't been terribly active today, as if he knew what was happening.

"But I can't find my keys!" he said, as if she didn't understand the problem. She rolled her eyes. "Natasha."

"Look, can we have this baby, preferably today?" she asked. "We can find your keys after I deliver." The door sighed open behind her. She turned to see Bucky, looking confused.

"What's the hold up?" he asked. "Bruce is ready for Natalia."

"I can't find my keys, Buck. Have you seen them?" Steve asked. She groaned, leaving the room and waddling to the elevator.

"They're in your hand Steve, but you don't need your keys," she heard Bucky say as she jabbed her thumb on the up arrow. She was so ready to hold her son. She smiled when Steve made a happy sound and as the elevator doors open he and Bucky joined her.

"Found my keys," he said, she rolled her eyes. "I was holding them the entire time."

"Wow, you really must be an old man. To not even remember you were holding your own keys," she said, not trying to hide the snark in her voice. She leaned against him anyway.

"I'm just… jittery," he mumbled. "I'm gonna be dad."

"You just now realized that?" she asked, unable to hold back her teasing. He grumped, kissing her temple, she huffed, but a smile spread across her face as the elevator doors opened. "You ready?" she asked him.

"Let's do this," he said, a wide grin on his face. Bucky chuckled as Bruce came over and lead them to the prep room. She changed into a hospital gown and Steve lifted her up onto the bed and pulled her hair back into the hospital cap. "Everything's gonna be okay," he said, squeezing her hand. "All be over soon."

"Right," she said, wincing a little as Bruce gave her the local anesthesia. It was a weird feeling as all sensation was deaden from her waist down. She couldn't even feel James move. She swallowed, fear creeping up her spine with the lack of the primal connection between her and her son. "Everything will be okay."

"Steve, go with Betty and she'll get you prepped to go in," Bruce said. She whimpered when Steve let go of her hand. Panic rose up in her chest and she bit her lip, trying to remain calm. "Don't worry, Tasha," Bruce said, pushing the hospital bed through the doors and into the operating room. "I'm right here. Steve's gonna be back soon. Once he's here, we'll get this show on the road, huh?" he said as the rest of the nurses and technicians hooked her up to more machines that beeped every so often. Bruce did a last-minute check on James' vitals, declared them good. "Tasha, I'm pinching your toe, can you feel that?"

"No," she said, trying to maintain some sense of control. This reminded her of the Red Room, how they sterilized her. "No, I can't Bruce. Where's Steve?" she asked. It shouldn't be taking him this long. He just had to put on a cap and gown, right? Maybe scrub his hands and put some latex gloves on. "I want Steve."

"He'll be here in a minute," he said as a pair of nurses rolled up her gown to her breasts. It was weird seeing her round belly but unable to feel it. They placed a barrier around her belly, cinching it in close. She whimpered, the bad memories encroaching too fast, she wanted to bolt, but she couldn't feel her legs, couldn't escape. The doors open.

This was it, she was sure. The part where the Red Room revealed itself to her and took her baby away. She squeezed her eyes shut, a few tears escaped. "Hey, honey, no need to cry," Steve said, "unless those are happy tears."

She opened her eyes when he felt his gentle touch on her cheek. "Steve," she whispered, and he nodded, holding her hand. "It's really you?"

"Yeah. It's really me. Ready?" he asked. She nodded, and he gave a thumb's up to Bruce. She smiled at Steve. "You gonna be okay," he said.

"Yeah, I just… I'm just… scared," she whispered, while Bruce and Betty and the other doctors muttered to themselves as they talked about the best way to cut her open. "It reminds me of what the Red Room… did to me."

"Well this is far from what they did." Steve nuzzled her nose. "We're gonna hold our son in a few minutes." He grinned. "So, think about that. Think about holding James."

"Okay," she said, tears in her voice as she made herself focus on Steve's blue eyes and ignore the muttering of the doctors. Steve stroked her cheek and she leaned into his touch, closing her eyes. "Can you sing to me? Softly."

"Sure," he said, and sang to her an Irish folk song his mother always sang to him whenever he got scared. She relaxed, the low rumble of his voice soothing, she closed her eyes. A sharp cry broke him off and he sat up straighter, as Bruce held their squalling son. "Nat…" he breathed. She opened her eyes to see tears rolling down his cheeks. "He's beautiful."

"Lemme see," she said, pushing herself up onto her elbows to look at her son. Never had she felt such love. Pink and slimy, his fine red hair matted to his small had, James cried, wriggling his tiny arms and legs. "James," she whispered.

"Steve, wanna cut the cord?" Bruce asked. Steve paled, but nodded, standing up and letting a nurse put some latex gloves on so he could cut the umbilical cord. Betty clamped it as soon as Steve finished and wrapped a blanket around James before setting the squalling newborn on her chest. Natasha wrapped her arms around her baby.

"Hi, baby," she whispered, watching as James settle down. "I love you." She nuzzled her son, kissing his brand-new skin. "So much, Mama loves you, James." She smiled up at Steve, who put his hand on James' tiny back. "He's here."

He kissed her. "We did it Nat," Steve said, "we have baby."

She smiled, stroking James' small hand. "Yeah, we do. Our baby, our little James Rogers."

* * *

 **I couldn't leave this chapter without having James be born.**

 **All medical mistakes are my own.**

 **Thanks to toonanimals for the jar idea.**

 **Thanks to beckyg10 for the idea that Steve is so flustered that he forgets he's holding his keys.**

 **Next chapter is the last one. ^o^**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**


	22. Keepsake VII

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

It had been an exhausting year, with James being born and learning how to readjust to life with a child. Bruce had stressed she and Steve were heading into uncharted territory as nobody had ever assumed Steve would have a child (or if it was possible for him to have a child) or if said child would inherit the super soldier serum.

James inherited the super soldier serum alright, at least as far as Bruce could deduce from his genes. She knew her son did because he ate like a horse (she had to supplement her breastmilk with formula and by God, James hated formula. It was a relief when Bruce said they could introduce solid foods to him around three or four months). He was also strong for an infant, and as he grew he got stronger. All the milestones for infant development James met early or exceeded for his age group. Bruce said not to worry, as long as James was happy and healthy, everything was good.

So, they didn't. It was difficult when Steve's paternity leave was up, and he went back to saving the world. It was worse, when they cut her maternity leave short, and Steve was home alone with James. The worse was when she and Steve both left, Laura or Pepper babysitting James until they got back. She hated being away from her son. On solo missions she could push aside her worry and focus, when she went on missions with Steve it seemed they fed off each other, until her gut was a knot of worry and it took her some time to get her head in the game and focus. Steve was better at it than she was; life had been different ever since they got married. Sometimes she still thinks Tony finds it hard to believe that two of his teammates are married.

But none of that mattered now. It was Christmas, her husband and son were both happy and healthy, the future looked bright for everyone. Natasha sighed as she inhaled the sharp fresh scent of coffee as she poured herself a cup. Bruce had said that it was okay to have a cup of coffee in the morning, and it was so nice after abstaining from coffee during her pregnancy. After adding milk and sugar she took a sip, sighing and enjoying the quiet morning. Steve hadn't gone on his morning run (he had switched to going in the afternoon when James napped; they even bought a treadmill, Tony had to modify it so Steve could actually use it effectively), so the kitchen was hers until he got up. The house was aglow with their Christmas decorations, the only thing missing was the tree, which they planned to get later (once Bucky came with his truck). She looked at her phone, frowning at her news feed and sipped her coffee. James would be up soon; her breasts started to tingle.

Finishing her coffee in a few scalding gulps, she went upstairs and into the nursey just as James began to whimper. She turned her phone on, hitting the camera button and then the record button, James looked around, sucking on his lip and letting out little whimpers. She smiled. "Good morning Jamie, welcome to your first Christmas. Dada and I have so much fun things planned for you," she cooed into the phone as she walked towards James, who was standing in his crib. "Are you ready for Christmas?" she asked. James squawked, and she looked at the door, Steve was still asleep. "You're hungry aren't you little guy?" she paused the video and turned her phone off. "Let's get you changed and fed and then we can wake up Dada? How does that sound."

James cooed as she picked him up out of his crib and went to the changing table for a fresh diaper. She smiled, babbling to him in Russian as she changed his diaper and tickled his tummy, imaging James being fascinated by the bright paper of the presents and the fun of ripping into them for the first time. Christmas felt different than it had in years past; warmer and brighter, full of love. James looked at her, his tiny hands holding onto his little toes as she wiggled the fresh diaper beneath him and secured it. He giggled when she lifted him up, stomping his tiny feet on the changing table. "Well you're all clean for Santa," she said, nuzzling his nose. There had never been a sweeter sound in her life than the giggle of her son. "Let's get you fed then we can wake up Dada." She scooped James up and settled herself in the rocking chair, tucking him close to her chest, she pushed her sleep top up and he latched on. She sighed in relief as he nursed.

As he nursed, she checked him; her fingers running over his small back and legs and arms. Feeling his joints and counting his fingers and toes, softly singing: "Баю-баюшки-баю, не ложися на краю. Придёт сереньки волчок и ухватит за бочок. Он ухватит за бочок и потащит во лесок, и потащит во лесок…" In the distant haze of her memories, she could remember her grandmother's reedy voice singing her this song. Steve said there was an eeriness to the song, reminding him of winter and snow. It was during these private moments with her son that she spoke to him in Russian, teaching him her mother tongue sound by sound and the stories she half-remembered from her life before the Red Room.

James pulled away, looking at her with bright blue eyes (the same shade as his father's). "All done?" she asked, placing her hand flat on his tummy. He grinned, showing off his little gums, Bruce said he'll be teething soon but so far she had seen no evidence of it. She nuzzled his cheek, drinking in the scent of milk and baby. She placed him on her shoulder and patted his back until he gave a little burp. He cooed, wiggling his arms and legs. "Let's go say good morning to Dada, hm?" she kissed his round cheek, stood up and grabbed his little plush elephant from his crib. "Here baby," she said, handing it to him. He blinked and took it, sticking the trunk in his mouth as she fished her phone out of her pocket. She brought back the phone, turning the video back on. She switched the camera to her face. "Now that we are all clean and fed, we're gonna wake up Dada, right Jamie?" she asked, kissing her son as she left the nursing and entered her bedroom. James gave the camera a shy smile, hiding behind the ear of his elephant. With another tap she turned the camera back around and paused for a moment, letting the camera capture good video of Steve asleep. Her husband was cuddling her pillow, a light dusting of scruff on his chin and cheeks, his hair mused from sleep. He looked so peaceful, as if he didn't have the world's burdens on his shoulders. James got squirmy when he saw his father. Grinning, she walked over to their bed, sat down and let James crawl over to Steve.

James gurgled, tucking himself close to his father. "Is that Dada?" she asked, smiling as this was all caught on video. James nodded, sticking a finger in his mouth to gum it. "Why don't you wake him up." She put her hand on Steve's side and gave him a light shake. "Say, wake up Dada."

Steve gave a soft groan, cuddling the pillow. James looked at his mother, a mischievous grin on his face. "Dada!" he shouted, slapping Steve's face with both hands, laughing as Steve jerked awake. "Dada!" James shouted again and tried to slap Steve's face, but he caught James' tiny little wrists.

"Good morning," he said around a yawn and rolled onto his back. He placed James on his chest and bounced him. "Good morning." He grinned. "Merry Christmas, James!" he pushed up James' little onesie and blew a raspberry on his tummy. James squealed, a big grin on his face.

"Merry Christmas, Steve," she said, leaning over and kissing him. She nuzzled his nose. "Happy anniversary."

"Merry anniversary," he mumbled against her lips, stealing another kiss. He turned back to James. "And you," he said, tickling James' tummy. "How are you? Are you ready for Christmas?" he cooed. "Ready for Santa?" He bounced James again. She laughed, recording everything on her phone. Steve was quick to devolve into nonsense baby babble, James giggling and trying to grab his lips and nose. There was a lightness to her husband that she never seen before, and something Bucky said he only saw rarely back before the ice. James was an endless source of joy for them.

"Are you sure you want to be acting like this Steve? James'll see this when he's older," she said, capturing the entire thing on video. "He's going to wonder why his dad is such a dork."

"I'm not a dork," he said. "Am I a dork, Jamie? Am I? I'm not a dork," he cooed, making fishy faces at James. James just giggled and clapped, enjoying the attention. "And why are you recording all this?"

"One part blackmail, one part to capture James' first Christmas in real time," she said, grinning a little. She scooted closer to Steve and James, flipping the camera around the get a good family shot. "Our first Christmas as a family," she said, kissing Steve's cheek. James cooed, reaching for the phone. "No, baby, you can't have this," she said, pulling away. James whimpered, upset that his mother denied him something.

"Oh, no," Steve said, scooping him up and getting out of bed. He tossed James into the air and caught him. Whenever he did that her heart went into her throat, but she knew Steve would never let anything happen to their son. James squealed, his vexation at being denied her phone completely forgotten as Steve tossed him into the air. "No. No crying on Christmas," he said, cuddling James close and smothering his tiny face in kisses. "Nope, not allowed in this house, and that's a fact, Mama got it on video." He gave her a wink. "I think it's time for some breakfast."

"Snowflake pancakes?" she asked.

"Snowflake pancakes," he agreed, putting James on his shoulders. James giggled, and she handed Steve the elephant, which he gave to James. "To the kitchen," he said and started humming the Army theme song. She laughed, following them downstairs, recording the entire thing.

"You know, I may have to show Tony this, he'll find it funny."

"You do, and I'll never speak to you again," he said. James squealed, smashing his toy elephant on Steve's head. Laughing, she followed her family into the kitchen, Steve keeping a running commentary on all the fun Christmas things they had planned for James, and James gurgling in delight about it all without understanding any of it. "Alright, Mama, time to switch, Dada needs to make the pancakes," he said, taking James off his shoulders. She smiled, looping her arm around James' little waist and settling him on her hip. James reached for her phone again.

"No, baby," she said, "this is Mama's. You have your elephant." She jostled him a little, but James wasn't deterred, reaching for her phone again. "James, no." She looked around for his high chair. "C'mon, let's see if you won't eat a little something," she said as she walked over to his high chair and set him in it. She turned her phone off and placed it on the table. James whined, reaching for it. "James, work with Mama here." James ignored his mother, wriggling in her grasp as he tried to get her phone, dropping his elephant in the process. "James Clinton—" she got his bottom in the seat and snapped the straps and the tray into place. James blinked, confused by his sudden lack of mobility. He tried to stand up and push himself forward and she heard the telltale sound of thread snapping. Steve did too.

"Everything okay?" he asked, holding the electric hand whisk. "Nat?"

"He just wants my phone," she said, rushing to grab the jar of baby food and the rubber capped spoon. "And he's upset he's not getting it." She looked at James, who had scrunched up his little face in concentration, little hand reaching for her phone. "James," she growled, sitting down and scooting his high chair closer to her. "Look what Mama has! It's yummies!" she pushed the spoon towards his mouth, but he turned away, an orange glob of peach puree on his cheek. He tried again, reaching for her phone and more thread snapped. "Jamie," she cooed, trying again. "Look it's Iron Man!" she said, weaving the spoon up and down to get him interested it. James cooed, little mouth open in wonder.

Her phone buzzed, and James turned his head to look at it. More baby food smeared on his cheek. James giggled and resumed his quest for her phone. "James, look at Mama," she said, trying again. This time, Steve starting up the electric hand whisk drew James attention and he got baby food on his other cheek. "Черт." Sighing, she looked at Steve. "Can you help me? He's not eating."

"Jamie," Steve said, setting the electric hand whisk down. "You need to eat for Mama." He opened the fridge and pulled out a can of whipped cream and grabbed a bowl from the cupboard. He spritzed some whipped cream in the bowl and then took the spoon she was using and plopped two globs of baby food into it and mixed it up. "Here Jamie, Dada made you an extra special yummy, since it's Christmas!" he set it before James, took his hand and dipped one finger in it and wrangled that little finger into their son's tiny mouth. "Mmmmm, yummy huh?"

Natasha laughed, catching half of it on her phone. "He's not eating it Steve," she said. He arched a brow, smirking. "Don't look so smug, he's not eat" — James dipped his finger back into the whipped cream and baby food mixture — "I hate you," she grumbled, as James realized that it tasted good and was dipping all his fingers into the mixture to suck off the baby food and whipped cream mixture. Steve laughed and kissed her.

"Love you too, honey," he said and went back to making pancakes. "I'll leave the whipped cream out, so you can make more when he finishes."

"Do you really think this is good? He's only seven months old?" she grabbed the can of whipped cream, reading the ingredients. She went to the specialty store to buy James' baby food, the ingredients were simple: peaches, potato starch and water. The whipped cream had cream, sugar, and a slew of things she couldn't pronounce.

"It's fine, Nat," Steve said, his voice raised to be heard over the electric hand whisk. "The serum will metabolize anything before it can do any real harm. And if you're that worried, I bought heavy cream, so I can make a batch of real whipped cream."

"I just don't want him to get sick," she said, watching James finish off the peaches and cream concoction. She thumbed through the google search on her phone until he was done. She took a napkin, blotting it on her tongue before wiping away the smears of peach puree from his face. James squirmed, unhappy that he was getting his face cleaned. "Baby, hold still. You don't want to be dirty for Santa." She knew reasoning with him was futile; James was too young to understand reasoning. Still, she said it and manhandled her squirming son until his face was clean. "There, all better." She smiled as she stood up, collecting his bowl and kissed his head. She set it in the sink and watched Steve ladle the batter into a squeeze bottle. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Sure do," he said, twisting the cap on and giving the bottle a good shake. "Saw how to do it on the internet." He grinned and went over to the hot griddle.

"Just don't burn down my house," she said as she opened the freezer and pulled out James' teething ring. The teething ring had the faces of the Avengers on the bubble parts and she wondered if they bought everything Avengers theme or if their friends did it as some crude joke. Pushing the freezer close with her foot she went back to James and handed him the teething ring which promptly went into his mouth. "Nice and cold huh?" she asked, smoothing James' fine red hair. James looked at her with big blue eyes, a cute little smile on his face as he sucked on the ring. He wasn't getting fussy yet, but she did feel the teeth nubs. Being preemptive never hurt anyone (unless you ask Steve about winning wars before they start).

The front door opened, and she stood up, trying to angle herself between the potential threat and James. Even though she knew she was being illogical, seeing as only their closets friends (Clint, Bucky and Tony) had a key to their house; still, her training as a spy and assassin was hard to shake and motherhood only served to increase her paranoia. "Steve? Nat?" Bucky called, as the door closed. She relaxed, sitting back down again, just as Steve came over with a plate of snowflake pancakes.

"In the kitchen, Buck," Steve called, and Bucky appeared a moment later, wearing black jeans and a horrid Christmas sweater: it had the red star of communist Russia atop a Christmas tree with little gun ornaments. "Oh… jeez." Steve gave his friend a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry Bucky."

"It sings," Bucky grumbled. He held up two lumpy packages. "Gifts from Stark. Mandatory wear tonight, otherwise and I quote 'you will be labeled a scrooge and no longer welcomed at his Christmas party'." He tossed them to her and she caught them. "Pancakes smell good, Steve." He took the plate Steve was holding. "Got any syrup?" Bucky asked as he spritzed whipped cream on his pancakes.

"I'll uh… go make some more." Steve went back to cooking as she unwrapped the two sweaters. She groaned at the sight. "Nat?"

"They're matching Steve." She held one up. The image was his shield, but the star was replaced with her red Widow hourglass, little LED lights outlined everything. Thankfully, there was a button to turn on just the lights, and her shoulders slumped when they flashed. James looked up and cooed, reaching for the sweater, fascinated by the flashing lights. "No, baby," she said, turning the lights off and rolling up the sweater. "Not for you. For Mama and Dada." She wiggled his teething ring which he held in his other hand. "This is for you." James blinked, cooing when he saw the ring and went back to sucking on it.

"Don't celebrate just yet Natalia," Bucky grumbled and pulled out another smaller lumpy package. "Here you go James." He set the small package on James' high chair tray. James, squealed, dropping his teething ring on the ground (Natasha grumbled as she picked it up) and tugged at the paper. He froze when it ripped and after a few seconds, decided he liked that ripping sound and pulled at it more, giggling all the while until he revealed his own horrid Christmas sweater.

"Steve." Natasha picked up the sweater as she handed James back his teething ring (which he promptly dropped on the floor again, more interested in his sweater) and held up the sweater. It didn't have flashy lights, but it was the same pattern on it and small enough for a seven-month-old. "Steve," she said again, and this time he turned and looked, shoulders slumping.

"Uh… I guess we can tell Tony thank you?" he turned back to the griddle to flip the pancakes.

"He's not wearing this," she said, bunching up the sweater and setting it on top of the adult sized ones, James whined in protest. She bent over and picked up his teething ring. "Here Jamie, this is for you." She set it on his tray. James screamed, throwing the teething ring across the kitchen and smacking his tray hard enough she was afraid he'd snap it in half. "James, stop it. It's not a toy," she said, bending over and scooping up his elephant. "Look, Jamie! It's Peanut, you love your Peanut." She handed the elephant over to her son, but James wanted the sweater and promptly threw his elephant across the room.

"Nat, what's wrong?" Steve asked, coming over with another plate of pancakes. He set it in front of Bucky as she scooped James out of his chair. "Is he teething?" He ran his thumb along James' gums.

"Rub some whiskey on his gums," Bucky said, "Steve, you got syrup?" Steve nodded, and grabbed the syrup, handing it over. "Thanks. That's what my ma did when I was a baby and with my sisters. Rub some whiskey on his gums, put 'im right to sleep." He drowned his pancakes in syrup before digging in. "These are good Steve."

"Thanks." He put a hand on his son's tiny head. "It won't hurt him Nat. My mam did the same with me."

"I think every mother did back then," Bucky said around a mouthful of pancake.

"I'm not rubbing whiskey on his gums," she said. "I don't think it's his teeth. I think he's just cranky he's not getting his way. I wouldn't let him have my phone, and now I won't let him have the stupid sweater."

"Do you want me to take him?" Steve asked. "I don't mind—"

"No, you need to finish making the pancakes, I'll walk him around," she said, kissing James' cheek as he screamed in her ear. She winced and started walking around, starting in the kitchen and heading to the living room. The Christmas decorations drew his attention. The stationary ones held it for a few moments, before he started to get fussy again. "No, James," she whispered and pinched the paw of a fluffy reindeer with bells on its antlers. _Jingle Bell Rock_ began to play, the bouncing reindeer, the jingle of its bells and the song amused James, whatever was upsetting him forgotten. The chorus ended, and James squirmed. "Okay, okay," she said and pressed it again, James giggling in delight. She sat on the couch, near the decoration, pressing it whenever the song ended. James reached for the antlers, fascinated by the bells. "No, baby, don't put that in your mouth, you'll break it."

"Nat, pancakes," Steve called.

"Alright," she said, standing up. James protested, reaching for the reindeer. "No, sweetheart, it's time to be good now and sit while Mama eats her pancakes." James whimpered, not caring about his mother or her desires. Bucky came over.

"I can take him," he said, "also found this on the floor by the couch." He held up the elephant. James squealed, reaching for his elephant. "Gimme him, we'll play fun games, go eat."

"It's fine Bucky, I got it, really."

"Nah." He scooped James from her arms. "I got him." James giggled, attention on Bucky's metal arm, fascinated by his reflection though not comprehending it was him. Bucky smiled at that, ruffling James' hair as he sat down on the couch and turned on the tv. The news anchor was talking about the Christmas events (specifically Tony's Christmas party) and what the Avengers will be doing for the holidays.

"I don't care Maggie," the guest on the program said, "about what Tony Stark is doing for the holidays. What I care about is James Rogers being in the care of Black Widow." Natasha froze, staring at the tv and the jowly woman on the tv.

"Well, he is her son," the anchor said.

"A son she should never been allowed to have. I don't know if you read the Shield files about her — I did — but she's killed children Maggie. _Children_ , yet we let this woman have her own? What's to say she won't smother him in his sleep and say its SIDS?" The guest leaned in closer; Natasha looked at her feet, clenching her trembling hands. "Mothers have done that short of shit all the time. This woman is a trained killer and yet people think it's perfectly fine for her to get married and have a kid?"

"Her husband is Captain America—"

"Exactly, we don't need a national symbol — a national _hero_ , being caught up in that sort—"

"Hey, Buck, see if there's a Christmas movie on the Hallmark Channel," Steve said. She looked over her shoulder, giving him a wane smile as Bucky changed the channel and found a Christmas movie. "C'mon," he said, and she headed back to the table and staring at the snowflake pancakes. James giggled, slapping Bucky's metal arm; she smiled, glad Bucky found some measure of peace with that arm and it was all thanks to James. Of course, it seemed some members of the public only saw her as evil, unworthy of having a child of her own. _You have no place in this world_.

"Nat, eat," Steve said, coming over with the last of the pancakes. He sat down and drowned his pancakes in syrup and then covered them in whipped cream. He nudged her. "Nat."

"Oh?" she jerked herself out of her musings and poured some syrup over her pancakes and added some whipped cream. "These are good," she said, after taking a bite; she smiled.

"You're a good mom," he said, rubbing her back. "Don't beat yourself up over it. Sometimes babies need to see a new face for a while." He rubbed his hand down her back. "And don't let what that lady said get to you. They've been saying it since your pregnancy got leaked. You deserve this Natasha. You're worthy of being James' mother and my wife." He kissed her temple. "I love you."

"You know," Bucky called from the couch. "Stark's party is at seven and if you guys want to make it on time, and still do some fun Christmas things, like gingerbread houses and getting the tree, we better leave within the hour."

"He's right," she said, smiling. "We gotta get going."

"Eat up." Steve smiled and dug into his pancakes.

* * *

The drive to the tree farm didn't take long and she was able to keep James awake the entire way. It helped that Steve kept twisting around in the front passenger seat to tickle James' tummy whenever Bucky was at a stop light. James squealed, trying to grab his father's fingers and giving everyone a large gummy smile. Away from everything, she was able to forget about that woman and her anxiety of being a new mother.

Steve and Bucky got out first, while she stayed behind to manhandle James into tiny little gloves and boots, complete with a tiny little jacket and wool cap. He was having none of it, whining and squirming the entire time she tried to get everything on him. Sometimes she'd glance up to see Bucky and Steve talking, waiting for her to get out with James. She got the hat on his head, tying the string beneath his chin. A whimper escaped him, and he pawed at the string, giving her a pleading look. "No, Jamie, it's cold and this'll help keep your earsies warm," she said, kissing his nose. He sneezed, the action surprising him. The door opened.

"Nat, you done?" Steve asked, grabbing the bulky diaper bag and slinging it over his shoulder. "Hey, buddy, ready to get your first tree?" Steve asked, placing his hand on James' torso. It amazed her how small her son was compared to her husband, that her husband's entire hand could cover her son's tiny body. James shrieked in excitement, his discomfort with the winter gear forgotten. "Yeah, betcha are." Steve released the buckle and wiggled it over James' head. She scooped James up and opened the other door. Bucky's hand grasped her elbow as she got down from the truck; grumbling about how they made trucks so fucking high and how this was discrimination against short people. Bucky chuckled, closing the door and locking the truck. "Everyone ready?" Steve asked, zipping up his jacket. It was the leather one she got him for Christmas years ago, that said Howling Commandos on the back with his shield and the names of those he served with. He even wore a hat commemorating his service as a WWII veteran, Sam got it for him. She cheekily bought one for Bucky, and it surprised her that he even wore it (or that both were wearing the hats today).

"You remember where the tree is?" Bucky asked as they started walking towards the farm. A few other families were also there, getting a tree last minute. Steve and Bucky had already selected their tree, they were just here to cut it down.

"Yup." Steve took the lead, his strong legs, plowing through the deep snow drifts and making a path for them until they reached the plowed pathway. She fished out her phone and started recording.

"This is your first Christmas tree, Jamie," she said, setting the camera to selfie mode. "And it's even snowing, how exciting!" she watched as James tried to grab the snowflakes, his tiny face scrunched up in concentration. He opened his hand, making a surprised sound when there was no snowflake within. "You can't catch them with your hand James. Catch them with your tongue" — she stopped and opened her mouth, sticking her tongue out. A few snowflakes landed on her tongue. — "like that baby." She giggled, fond memories of her childhood in Russia coming back. James didn't really get it, trying to bite the snowflakes out of the air, but she laughed, and he grinned.

"You two seem to be having fun," Steve said when she finally caught up to him and Bucky. They stood beneath the overhang, waiting for the tractor with the hay ride. Steve chuckled, watching James trying to eat the snowflakes.

"Care to say something for the camera, Dad?" she asked, turning the camera back into picture mode and zooming in on his face. His ears turned pink (and it wasn't from the cold).

"Nat are you going to record everything?"

"Today and tomorrow, yep. To celebrate James' first Christmas." She nudged him. "Go on say something for him to remember."

Steve sighed. "Alright," he grumbled. "James, your mother used to never be one for collecting memories. Ever since you were born — no, ever since she found she was pregnant with you — I never seen a woman take faster to scrap-booking than your mother. I'm sorry for this buddy, for all the pictures of every embarrassing moment in your life being shown to you future girlfriend."

"Steve, say something nice. This is James' first Christmas."

"Mommy and I love you James," he said. "There, that's nice." She groaned, rolling her eyes. "What it is!"

"Maybe I should be the camera guy, while you two do cutesy new parents stuff with James?" Bucky asked, as the tractor came rumbling down the path. James cooed, eyes growing wide at the sight of the tractor. She handed her phone over to Bucky.

"Just for the hay ride, I want it back when we reach the top," she said, following Steve onto the hay filled trailer. Bucky gave a nod, filming as he walked. She snuggled up against Steve, and positioned James at the railing, placing his tiny feet between the planks. Steve put his hand on James' back, next to hers.

"You got snow in your hair," he said; she smiled, shaking her head to dislodge the snow. The sound of his laughter warmed her heart. "Don't get it all over me!" It was a wintry day, perfect for Christmas tree hunting, with snow falling from the grey sky. The other families crowded in too, though it wasn't that many, and the tractor was soon rumbling up the hill, the smoke stack coughing out thick black plumes of exhaust. She covered James' nose and mouth whenever the wind pushed the noxious fumes towards them.

"You know," Bucky said, from Steve's side, "I got a story for James. It's a good one and a Christmas story."

"Buck, no," Steve said. "He has plenty of Christmas stories."

"What is it Bucky?" she asked, curious now — especially since Steve didn't want Bucky to share it. "I wanna hear it." James gurgled, still trying to bite the snow.

"Okay, so it was Christmas of '23, so Steve was five and I was six. Our church was putting on a meeting with Santa event and Steve here was super excited because —"

"Bucky, _please!_ " Steve whined.

"— he wholeheartedly believed in Santa. Even though he knew the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy weren't real. Santa was. So, our mas bundle us up and schlep us off to the church. We wait in line to get a chance on Santa's lap. Steve's vibrating with excitement because his ma never took him to department stores during the holidays since it was expensive she couldn't afford it. I went before him, told Santa what I wanted and then went to my ma. Steve here is so excited he's about ready to piss himself—"

"Bucky!" Steve's ears turned pink an she giggled, nuzzling James' little head as he continued — unsuccessfully — to eat the snowflakes.

"— so he gets on Santa's lap and starts rambling off what he wants for Christmas: Tinker Construction kit, crayons, Morse code telegraph learning set, his ma to be happy and for his da to come home." Bucky sighed at the last one, and she looked at Steve, who's gaze was fixed firmly on the scenery. "Well, my da said he'll see what he could do about getting the list to the elves. And as soon as Steve heard my da's voice he flipped. Started crying and making a fuss and yanked the fake beard off. The priest came running with Steve's ma and he flat out refused to go to her, called her a liar. She took him aside anyway and explained to him that my da was one of Santa's helpers and that Santa was still real. I don't think Steve believed her though."

"Thanks for that Buck," Steve grumbled. "Didn't need to remember how that ruined my Christmas that year."

"It's not so bad Steve," she said. "It's kinda cute."

"Whatever," he grumbled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. She picked up James, settling him on her hip. He was calm, looking around, the snowflakes no longer amusing. The tractor reached the top of the hill and they got off, Bucky grabbed a saw and Steve lead the way to the tree. She took her phone back.

"This is your first tree, James," she said, once they reached it. "Isn't it beautiful?" she kissed his cheek and he grinned. "It's a nice tree guys."

"Of course, it is, Steve picked it out," Bucky said as he got down on his side to start cutting it. She set James between her feet, smiling as he cooed at the snow. "He has a thing about Christmas trees. Always did."

"No more stories," Steve groused, as Bucky started sawing. "Think we had enough outta you for today."

"Hey, go parent your own kid," Bucky said. She laughed, filming everything. Every now and then she wiped away the snowflakes from the screen and licked her lips to keep them moist (she regretted not putting on chapstick). James was quiet at her feet. "I'm almost done," Bucky said.

"Nat," Steve said. "Nat, he's eating snow."

"Huh?" she looked down at James, who had a small mound of snow in his hand. "Don't eat that baby." She stooped, brushing it out of his tiny hand. She went back to filming. "Is it hard work?"

"Uh-huh. Can't move my arm enough," Bucky grumbled. "Almost got it. Steve don't let go."

"I wo— James don't eat that!" Steve let go the tree, and in one great big stride, closed the gap between him and James, scooping him up and knocking the snow out of his hand. "Don't eat snow, buddy. Nat, I told you he was trying to eat snow."

"I knocked it out of his hand and—" she broke off when the tree fell on top of Bucky. "Better go get your friend." She took their son from him. "Don't worry Bucky, I got it all on video." Bucky wiggled his hand from out beneath the branches and flipped her off. She laughed. "Steve, Bucky made a bad hand sign!"

"Jesus Christ," he grumbled as he lifted the tree off Bucky. "Well, it's not damaged."

"I am," Bucky grumbled rolling out from under the tree's shadow and standing up. "Think I got pine needles in my ear." He sat up, his metal arm making whirling sounds as it supported most of his weight and used his right hand to brush the pine needles off him. Steve stood there, holding the tree like a stick and offered his hand to Bucky. "You owe me," Bucky said with a grunt as Steve hauled him to his feet.

"I know, and I'm sorry" — he glanced at her with a glare — "if someone had been watching James, like they're supposed to, this wouldn't have happened."

"Oh so you're blaming me?" Natasha asked, turning the phone off and slipping it into her pocket.

"Yes! I told you he was trying to eat snow, yet you still continued to record everything and—"

"I knocked it out of his hand, Steve! And told him no!"

"He's a baby Nat, he doesn't understand no. You need to pay better attention to him when we're out doing things like this because it's dangerous!"

"I'm a good mother," she hissed, ignoring the cold prickle of fear that edged its way into her heart. "I'm a good mother," she repeated.

"Hey" — Bucky stepped in before things could get ugly, something she was thankful for — "Nat, Steve isn't saying you're a bad mother. Steve, relax. I'm fine, the tree's fine, and James is fine. Everything is fine. No fighting. Especially on Christmas." He smiled. "Want to set a good example for James, right?"

They looked at their son, who was sucking his lip as he watched the entire thing unfold. The wind buffeted them, and she pulled James closer to her in an attempt to shield him from the worst of it. Steve stepped closer too, instinct driving him to protect his family; she leaned into his broad chest, sighing when she felt his hand stroke her hair and him press a kiss to the crown of her head. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "I just… I just want this to be special for him. For him to be able to see this one day."

"I know," he said, "but do you need to be recording everything? Why can't you just record the cute moments and not all the mundane stuff and disasters in between?" he asked, rubbing her shoulder. "He doesn't need to see that when he's older."

"I don't know… I just… I want to capture everything about today and tomorrow… so he can remember." She pressed her head to his chest, smiling at the sound of his heartbeat. Steve wrapped her in a one-armed hug, placing another kiss on her forehead. James squirmed, unhappy about being squished between his parents. She smiled down at her son, shifting a little so he wasn't so squished, and then she looked up at Steve. "You didn't shave this morning," she said, reaching up and running her fingers along his jaw.

"Forgot." He pecked her lips. "I forget things sometimes." She arched a brow. "I do. I'm not perfect."

"I'd hate to break up the romance," Bucky said, "but Steve's holding the tree by himself and people are giving us weird looks." He picked at a rusty spot on the handle of the saw. "Unless you two care to explain that you're Black Widow and Captain America, we should get going."

"Oh, right." Steve stepped away from her, and let Bucky grabbed the base of the tree. "C'mon." He started to lead the way and she fell in behind Bucky.

"Dada forgets he's really strong," she told James, "and it's cute how he tries to act normal around civilians." James cooed, blowing spit bubbles. She smiled, kissing his nose and tugging the little cap further down his head.

* * *

One of Steve's Bing Crosby records played in the background, there was something soothing and familiar about Crosby's voice and the pop and crackle of vinyl. He had put it on shortly after they got home, while she had gone upstairs to nurse James and set him down for a nap. Steve and Bucky had gotten the Christmas tree stand and ornaments from the attic while she had done that, setting up the tree and stringing the lights. By the time she came down, Steve and Bucky were rummaging through boxes as they swapped stories of decorating Christmas trees from their youth. Everything felt warm and homely, and she smiled at Steve, who walked over and gave her a little kiss. "He's asleep," she said, leaning into him as he wrapped his arms around her.

"Good." He grabbed the baby monitor on the table and turned it on. "C'mon, I found your angels."

"I can't believe you've gotten me one every year," she said, accepting the box with eight smaller boxes inside; the Hallmark logo and the words _keepsake_ stamped on the front of the boxes. Smiling, she picked up the one that said 2012 and opened it. Steve had been so awkward around her during Tony's Christmas party, drunk as well and she giggled remembering how he kissed her. and she teased him which resulted in him running off to the bathroom to be sick. She had gone with him to Midnight Mass that year. "Bruce was right," she said, hanging up the angel on the top branch.

"Hm?" Steve looked up, hands rummaging for another ornament. "About what?"

"Remember, how we got caught beneath some mistletoe at Tony's party — your first Christmas outta the ice — and Bruce said that couples that kiss beneath the mistletoe have prophesized to have everlasting love or get married."

"Toldja you'll get a kiss beneath some mistletoe eventually, Stevie," Bucky said. Steve laughed.

"You know, I've forgotten about that." He chuckled. "I was plastered. Thor kept shoving Asgardian mead down my throat. I don't remember much of that night honestly." He hung up the ornament and took her hand, lifting it up as the music swelled and twirled her into his chest. "But I didn't forget that kiss," he purred, eyes darkening. "You said you could make me go ho ho ho, if I remember right."

A blush colored her cheeks and a girlish smile spread across her face. "Yeah." The easy smile on his face made her heart flutter and the spark of desire that she hadn't felt since before she got pregnant blossomed. Steve was handsome in a way she could only describe as scruffy elegance. "I remember," she said, "you looked torn between arousal and being sick."

He tossed his head back with a laugh. "That's because I was!" He pulled her into a hug. "James is asleep, Bucky can finish up the tree" — his fingers slipped beneath her shirt — "why don't you and I go upstairs and see if you can make go ho ho ho after all?"

"Steve…" she felt her cheeks grow hotter. Bucky coughed, and she tried to take a step back from her husband, but he had linked his fingers together, caging her in his strong arms. "We have a guest."

A devilish glint sparked in his eyes and he leaned closer, his lips brushing against her ear and he whispered, "I'll be quiet if you promised to be quiet."

" _Steven!_ " she squealed — what had gotten into him all of the sudden — smacking his chest and trying to break free. He had other plans, she soon discovered, as he pulled her flushed to his chest and lifted her up as she kicked her legs and held onto his hands to keep herself from slipping.

"Get a room you two," Bucky said, as he hung up the little collection of ornaments he gathered on his fingers, "don't need to see you making baby number two."

"Not a bad idea," Steve said, nipping her ear. "Mam always said if you want more kids have them close together."

"Steve, James is only six months!" And I'm not ready to think about having another baby, I don't think I can handle more miscarriages. "It's too early to think about having more kids. I don't think I can get pregnant while breastfeeding anyway."

"Always can put it to the test," he said, sucking on her neck. She arched into his chest, a soft shuddering moan escaped her throat, which he kissed until she was sighing in contentment in his arms.

"Seriously, though" — Bucky gave them a look — "get a room."

"Didn't you say something about gingerbread?" she asked, trying to pry his fingers open so she could get free. He let her go, giving her ass a little smack. She shot him a glare but he waggled his brows and smirked at her.

"And yeah," he said, stretching. "I did. I should make that now, so James can see it."

"You know he'll probably try and eat it," Bucky said, he stepped back and surveyed his handy work. "I left you a spot for your angels, Nat."

"Thanks," she said and picked up another angel as Bucky went to sit on the couch and Steve drifted off into the kitchen to make the gingerbread (she could hear him whistling along to the record). She remembered the Christmases as she hung up the angels: the Christmas she went tree hunting with Steve and he stood between her and Rumlow. It was then that she realized that she was falling in love with him. The following Christmas Steve told her he loved her, and they started dating (that angel was one of her favorites as it held a star over its head). The next Christmas they got married and Bucky came back to them. Peggy died the next Christmas season; she stood by his side, supporting him through this difficult moment and he later came to her and broached the subject of starting a family. The last three angels in her hand were beautiful and sad, remembering the childless Christmases and the pain of trying to just carry a baby to term; still she hung them up with care. The final angel from last year was holding a baby. James hadn't been born yet, but the sentiment was still there, and she hung it up on the awaiting branch. "All that's left is the star."

"You gonna have James put it on?" Bucky asked. She looked over and noticed he was still wearing his coat from tree hunting; she arched a brow.

"Aren't you warm?"

"Do you want your eyes accosted by that horrid sweater Stark shoved me in?" he arched a brow. Steve started to sing along to the record.

"Its not that bad," she said, sitting down next to him. "At least not as bad as Steve's singing." She giggled as Steve failed to hit a high note.

"I heard that!" Steve shouted.

"You aren't winning any Grammys this year, honey!" she teased. "And yeah, we're going to let James put the star on… or rather Steve is going to hold him and guide his hand." She pulled her phone out and grinned. "And I'm gonna capture it on video."

"Why don't you let me do it and you help Steve hold James?"

"Not a bad idea," she said. "Can I ask you something?" she asked.

"Just did." She frowned, and he laughed. "Go ahead, Natalia."

"Back… back before the ice… did Steve want a large family?" she looked over at Steve, who was swaying his hips to the music as he sang and baked. She tried to image what he was like before the ice, how much was the Steve of the past different from the Steve of the present. He didn't like talking about what he hoped for before the ice and she never pressed him. Still, she wondered.

"I don't know," Bucky said. "To be honest, I never asked. Steve just never seemed… really interested in the ladies. Not that he was a bugger but… he just seemed caught up in his own life. I guess he didn't think it was important, with the war going on in Europe and then Pearl Harbour happening… he had more pressing things to worry about."

"So, he didn't want a family?" she asked. "Makes sense, he seemed reluctant and a bit shocked that I wanted a child."

"I… I think before the serum he felt he could never have it, nor did he want to subject his future children to his health problems but then everything changed when he met Peggy. I think it was then he realized that he wanted a family, a home, a sense of stability." Bucky frowned. "Why?"

"Я не думаю, что я могу иметь больше детей." The carpet needed to be vacuumed she realized as she stared down at it, counting the pine needles and the flecks of dirt. "И если Стив действительно хочет больше детей ... Я не знаю, как скажу ему, что больше не могу иметь."

"Natalia," Bucky whispered and pulled her into a hug. "You need to talk to him about this, maybe not now, but definitely soon. Maybe after Christmas."

"Okay." She wiped at her eyes, refusing to cry over this. The smells of ginger and cinnamon, clovers and nutmeg, sugar and molasses filled the house mingling with the alpine scent of the pine tree. It smelled like Christmas and sounded like Christmas with Christmas songs from the 30s and 40s weaving they way around everything, Steve's tenor adding to the sense this was right. "I just want him to be happy, Bucky. He deserves to be happy, to have what he always wanted."

"Nat" — Bucky leaned closer to her, putting a hand on her shoulder — "Steve _is_ happy. He has you, he has me, he has James. This" — he waved his hand around at their home — "this is what he wanted. This bliss. Don't sell yourself short. He looks at you and sees the universe within you." Bucky smiled. "I don't think I seen him look at Peggy like she was his everything. He looks at you like that. He loves you and he's happy."

Sighing, she stood up, going into the kitchen. She ran her hand along Steve's back until he looked at her.

"Hey." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "What's up? What were you and Bucky talking about?"

You. Children. My own sense that I'm inadequate. "Nothing," she said, kissing his cheek. "I love you."

He blinked, an easy smile appearing on his face. "I love you too, Nat." He watched her as she took his hand and licked the gingerbread dough off his finger. "Well?" he asked, his voice taking on a husky note.

"Spicy." She smirked, watching the muscles in his through tighten with a swallow. "Steve, I'm—" she gasped when he kissed her, and her opened mouth gave his tongue the chance to delve into her mouth. She groaned, legs going weak as he kissed her until it was the only thing she could think about. Chest rising and falling with the need for breath, she stared at him into his lust darken eyes when he finally let her come up for air. "Steve?" she asked. He grabbed a kitchen towel an wiped his hands before scooping her up.

"Buck, check the gingerbread in about twenty minutes," he said, as he carried her out of the kitchen. "And check on James."

"Steve…" she whispered as he walked passed the couch, her cheeks pink and hot.

"Have fun you two, don't be too loud," Bucky said.

She muttered something in Russian, hiding her face in the crook of Steve's neck. "Wouldn't dream of it," Steve said. "Right, Nat?"

"Боже мой!" She smacked his chest. "Just take me to bed."

"As you wish."

* * *

Steve had worshipped her body and it was difficult keeping her vocalizations to a minimum (her cheeks hurt from biting them so hard). Afterwards, they napped until James woke up. She got up to take care of him — changing and nursing him — before meeting Steve downstairs to put the star on top. James cooed, fascinated with the decorated tree and how high Steve lifted him. She smiled, one hand on Steve's shoulder an the other on James' little hip as Steve helped him put the star on. Bucky recorded the entire thing. Steve set James in his playpen and went to finish baking the gingerbread house parts and start making the icing. She went upstairs and wrapped presents.

When she came back down Frank Sinatra was crooning through the house (it was after Steve's time, but he liked it all the same). "Where's my baby?" she asked, walking around the living room with her phone. "Where is he?" she asked, her voice high and cutesy. James was sitting in front of the tree, his stuffed elephant in one hand, a branch in another. He kept trying to pull himself up right, but the shaking of the tree kept spooking him. Still, her son was nothing but determined and she watched as the tree wobbled dangerously, the ornaments shaking with each tug. "What are you doing baby?" she cooed, as she sat down on the floor. James abandoned the tree to crawl over to her with a gurgle. "Little stinker" — she kissed the top of his head, reveling in the smell of his baby newness — "are you trying to wreck the tree?" she asked, as James crawled into her lap. She smiled, wrapping her arm around James' tummy. The baby cooed, sticking his elephant's ear into his mouth. "I thought your daddy was supposed to be watching you, while I wrapped presents, hmm? That was his anniversary gift to me this year. Do you know where he is?" she asked. "And what about your Uncle Bucky?" James looked at her with bright blue eyes, a little smile appear and drool oozing down the elephant's ear. "Where's Dada?" she asked, smoothing his fine red hair and placing a kiss on the crown of his head.

"He's in the kitchen, Nat," Bucky said as he walked out of the kitchen with a glass of milk. "Hey."

"Who was supposed to be watching James?" She gave Bucky a dangerous smile. He swallowed.

"I just uh… went to get some milk…" he muttered. "I was gone for a few seconds, I swear!" He swallowed. "Steve and I both have enhanced hearing! We were listening for him."

"Where's Steve?" she asked, smoothing James' soft red hair.

"In the kitchen."

"Thanks." She gave Bucky a serene smile. "Well" — she scooped James up onto her hip as she stood in one fluid motion — "shall we go say hi to Dada?"

"Hi," James chirped, giggling at his own little word. She smiled, kissing James cheek as she tapped the phone screen to get it the camera to go to selfie mode.

"This is your punishment, Steve. You said I could have the afternoon to wrap presents, but what do I fine? Your son trying to pull down the tree." She kissed James' cheek again and tapped the screen to get the camera to face the other direction. The kitchen smelled of gingerbread, and baked apples. The smells remaindered her of home.

Steve was sitting the table, hunched over a half constructed gingerbread house. James squirmed in her arms, squealing in delight at the sight of his father. Steve looked up. His hair had gotten a bit longer, more like how he had it when they first met on the deck of the helicarrier all those years ago. He had rolled the sleeves of his blue button-down shirt to the elbows and white icing caked his fingertips (he even managed to get some on his nose). Around him were bags of candy: gum drops, gummy bears, candy canes and peppermint circles, chocolate chips and rainbow sprinkles. He looked up, a flummoxed expression on his face, a pastry bag bulging with icing in his hands. "Uh… hi honey."

"What happened to watching James?" she asked, walking over to him and setting their son in his lap. He made a face, setting the bag of icing to the side. James giggled as Steve bounced him on his knee.

"Uh… I was?" he looked at her.

"Then you can explain to me why _your_ son was trying to pull down the tree," she said. Steve's mouth worked, but no sound came out and James looked up at him with that mischievous baby grin as he gummed his elephant's ear. "Well?"

"I uh… I was busy." He hung his head. "Making the gingerbread house for James."

"Uh-huh." She folded her arms, smirking. This was too fun sometimes, drawing it out of him. She arched both brows. James dropped his elephant, gurgling in surprised.

Steve let out a great big sigh, kissing James' head. "I was making it more for myself."

"Ah." She watched as James reached for the gingerbread house his father was working on. His little hand landed in some half-set icing and he kicked his legs in delight after he stuck his messy hand into his mouth.

"Oh, c'mon Nat!" his head jerked up. "I never got to make a gingerbread house when I was a kid! So… I thought well… it may be fun to" — James kept reaching for the icing — "to make a gingerbread house."

She nodded, understanding. "Okay, but you said you'd watch James." James made a soft whine, pulling against his father's grip in his effort to get onto the table.

"I was listening to him, and Bucky was in the living room."

"I was just getting some milk!" Bucky shouted from the aforementioned room.

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "Steve, I know you wanted to build a gingerbread house for James, but you said you'd watch him while I wrapped presents." James wriggled his way out of Steve's grip and onto the table. He grabbed the side and yanked part of it off and sucked on the icing.

"I'm sorry, Nat," he said. James gurgled, and Steve swore softly. The house was ruined, the half-finished roof had falling into the house and a huge chunk was missing from where James had torn off his chunk. The baby was sitting by it, icing on his knees and hands, happy as a clam as he sucked on the corner of his piece. "James."

"You need to clean up your mess, Steve," she said, as she scooped up James and gave his chubby little cheek a kiss. "We have to get going to Tony's party" — she turned to James, who grinned, sucking on the corner of the part of the house he had broken off — "and you, young man, need to get cleaned up for this as well. Wanna look nice for your Uncle Tony and Auntie Pepper, right?" James cooed. Steve sighed, poking his ruined gingerbread house. Taking pity on him, she gave him a kiss. "You can make one tomorrow, and I'll watch James while you do so."

"Okay."

Smiling, she wiped the icing off his nose. "You had icing on your nose." She walked off, but not before she saw him give her a tiny smile.

* * *

James looked around, captivated by the flashing lights of New York City that zipped by far below them. The elevator climbed the floors with a soft hum, and she found herself put her weight on right leg. "Do you want me to hold him?" Steve asked, and she shook her head. He nodded, leaning against the railing of the elevator.

"Surprised JARVIS isn't playing music," Bucky said, he had his back to them and was content watching the city.

"I can if you would like Mr. Barnes," the AI said, its smooth robotic voice breaking the silence. James looked up, little face scrunched up in bewilderment as he tried to locate the source of the voice. Natasha smiled, amused by James' confusion. She kissed his cheek and he looked at her, sucking on his lip.

"Nah, that's fine JARVIS. Did… uh… that thing I asked about—"

"I've taken care of it," JARVIS said, and the AI fell silent allowing the elevator's hum to fill the space again. James made another sound, reaching for the ceiling. She giggled, and Steve smiled, reaching a large hand over to cover James' tiny head. The baby looked at his father and grinned.

"You know, he doesn't look that bad in the sweater," he said. "Neither do you." He nudged her with his hip.

"At least they don't sing like last time," she said, returning the hip bump. They laughed softly, and he slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her close.

"No, they just blink," he said. "You okay Buck?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine." Bucky nodded, waving his hand dismissively. "Just hate the sweater."

She frowned, wondering if Bucky was hiding anything, but Steve seemed to accept the reason and didn't press any further. James cooed again, reaching for the ceiling. "No, baby, JARVIS isn't going to come back unless we need him," she explained, smiling as James gurgled in frustration. She reached into the baby bag that Steve had slung over his shoulder and pulled out a teething toy and gave it to James. He stuck it in his mouth, gumming it.

The elevator chimed when the reached the top floor. The doors sighed open and Christmas music drifted through the space. James looked up as the flashing Christmas lights caught his attention. "Let me see him!" Pepper said, pushing her way through the crowd. She wore jeans and a red and white sweater with big fluffy pom-poms. "Oh, Nat he's adorable!"

Natasha laughed, handing James over to Pepper. James blinked, grabbing one of the pom-poms and turning it about in his small hand. "Thanks. The sweater isn't too bad," she said. "Merry Christmas," she added.

"Merry Christmas." Pepper settled James on her hip and gave him a little bounce. "Tony set the play pen up over there in the corner, it should be quieter. He put DUM-E in charge of it."

She and Steve glanced over and there was the faithful if absentminded robot. It perked up and made a whistling sound, opening and closing its claw. She jerked her head and Steve set the baby bag in DUM-E's awaiting claw. She took Steve's hand and lead him towards the rest of the Avengers. Pepper passed James around to everyone. Everyone cooed and oohed over him and gave her and Steve compliments about how beautiful James was. For his part, James didn't seem to be bothered by the attention. He did like Thor though, who tossed him into the air (her heart leapt into her throat at that) and declared James to be as stalwart as his father. James giggled and squirmed until Thor tossed him a few more times. She intervened and took her baby back, clutching him close and smoothing his soft hair. He cooed, leaning against her. "Where's Tony?" Steve asked.

She frowned, realizing she hadn't seen Tony yet, which was odd considering he was always one to be the center of attention. "Umm…." Pepper looked around, trying to find her husband (they had gotten married that August). Steve went over to the table and grabbed a beer and a glass of ginger ale. "I'm not sure." She smiled at them. "He'll be back soon."

"Okay." She gave a nod, accepted the ginger ale Steve handed her. "I'm going to go over there," she said, "I think James is getting a bit over whelmed." She took a sip and walked over to the window. It was quieter, the Christmas music washing over them, mixing with the cheerful chatter and laughter of their friends. Removed from the excitement James settled down, attention drawn to the city's lights again. She sipped at the fizzy ginger ale, enjoying the spicy sweet of the drink. Steve came over a bit later, his hand going to the small of her back once he was close.

"How is he?" he asked. James looked up at his father, a

"Doing fine," she said, smiling at James. The baby's head whipped around suddenly, and they followed his gaze. There, a few feet away, was Bucky with a woman. They spoke in a hushed tone, but she and Steve's hearing were enhanced beyond that of a normal human's. Still, with the city's noises coming from the window, the vent at her feet, the music and laughter she couldn't make out everything Bucky was saying. Whatever was going on, it seemed to cause Bucky great pain. Steve went over, and she followed.

"What are you doing lurking in the shadows for, Buck? Go grab a beer and mingle," Steve said, clapping his friend on the back. She was surprised Bucky jerked in shock. "Hi." Steve thrust his hand out to the woman. "Don't believe we've met. Haven't been around the Tower in a while. I'm Steve Rogers."

"She knows who you are, Steve," Bucky grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. Still the woman was polite and accepted Steve's offered hand, smiling as she shook it.

"I'm Wanda," she said. Natasha frowned, recognized the Slavic lilt to her English. "Wanda Maximoff."

"Oh, so you're the twins they found at that castle," Natasha said. "I'm Natasha."

"Yes," Wanda said, "Bucky has told me much about you and Steve. It's good to finally put a face to the name."

"Well, it's… been a while since I've been to the Tower. Still technically on maternity leave, but sometimes I'm needed." She bounced James.

"Is he yours?" Wanda asked, holding out her arms. Natasha smiled, giving James a little kiss on the cheek before handing him over to Wanda. She hummed, holding the baby close. "His thoughts are so simple."

"You're a telepath?" Natasha asked. The young woman nodded and shifted James to her hip and held out her hand and conjured a little red ball of glowing… stuff. James cooed, fascinated by the magic and reached for it.

"No little one," she said, closing her hand around the magic and dispelling it. James grumped, squirming and getting fussy over being denied something he wanted. Steve stepped in then and scooped James out of Wanda's arms, bouncing him and cooing to distract him. James tried to reach for his beer bottle, but she took that from Steve which made James whine until Steve bounced him again. "I've been helping Bucky with his sister, helping to draw out her memories."

"Your sister?" Natasha frowned. Bucky looked away, turning around to stare out the window. His shoulders were tense, and he rubbed his left arm, a nervous habit she noticed he developed whenever anything coming close to his past or the life he used to have before the fall was broached.

"Is it Yvonne? Emma?" Steve asked.

"No, they died while I was… Hydra's weapon," Bucky said, not bothering to turn around. "It's Becca."

"Oh." Steve hung his head and she looked over at him, confused. "Jeez, I'm sorry Buck… I… I should've looked her up. I should've told her and—"

"Steve, it's fine. You had your own issues to deal with after the ice, you didn't need to worry about my family."

"I promised you I'd look after your sisters if anything bad happened to you." Steve nuzzled James' little head. "I should've at least looked her up." James squirmed as he gave an unhappy whimper; a tantrum was brewing. Steve gave his son a tiny smile and kissed his cheek. James wiped the kiss off. "What's wrong?"

"Becca's dying from Alzheimer's, she doesn't really remember me. Wanda helps draw the memories out. I asked Wanda to visit her today. I'm going to tomorrow to wish her a merry Christmas." Bucky sighed, looking at the city. She took a step closer to him and rubbed his arm; he gave her a sad smile.

"If you need anything Bucky —"

"Hey, what are you guys doing over here in the corner?" Tony asked, as he strutted over dressed as Santa. James cried, hiding his face against Steve's neck. "Oh hey, Jimbo, don't cry, it's just me" — Tony yanked down the fake bread and pushed the hat off his head — "just Uncle Tony." He looked over at her and grimaced. "I didn't mean to make him cry."

"I just think it's a bit too much for him and he wanted to catch Wanda's magic," she said, watching as Steve bounced James. "Steve, let me put him down for a nap." She went over and took James from him. "There, there baby." She rubbed James' back as she left the party, stopping only to scoop the baby bag up from the pen.

Inside the elevator, the noise was lessened, and James began to settle down. "Yeah, that's it baby," she said as she paced around the elevator, making shushing sounds. "You're tired and we're gonna get you down for a nap."

James hiccupped, crying wearing him out. She smiled as the elevator stopped at their floor. The doors sighed opened and she headed to the Rogers' Family suite. Inside was dark and quiet, the soft glow of the city lights the only source of illumination. She sat in the rocking chair by the window and let James nurse. "That's it little one," she whispered, pushing against the ground with the balls of her feet. James made a soft sound, putting his little hand between her breasts. She smiled, singing softly and took his hand. Her smile widened when he wrapped his fingers around her index finger. "…Баю-баюшки-баю, не ложися на краю. Придёт сереньки волчок и ухватит за бочок. Он ухватит за бочок и потащит во лесок, а там бабушка живёт и калачики печёт, и детишкам продаёт, а Ванюше так даёт," she sang as the door opened. "Steve."

"He asleep?" he whispered coming over to her. She nodded, gently pulling him away from her breast. James jerked his arm in his sleep. Steve smiled. "Here, I'll put him to bed. Tony says there's going to be dancing" — he flushed — "still don't know how to dance."

"I can show you," she said, standing up, walking with him to James' crib. Steve settled their son down and she tucked his blue elephant near him. She smiled as Steve wrapped an arm around her waist.

"I got you something," he said, pulling away from her and going to their bedroom. She frowned, following him. He met her halfway, a little box in his hand. "Merry Christmas, Natalia." He rolled his eyes, a little smile on his face. "And Happy Birthday and Happy Anniversary."

"A lot of happies in two days, huh?" she took the box with a little giggle, a smile on her face. "Thank you." She kissed him. "For everything, Steve. For being my friend, my love… my husband… my son's father."

"I should be thanking you," he said, "you… you gave me a home when I lost mine. I've been on my own since I was eighteen. I never fit in anywhere, not in the Army, not in this new time… but… but you made me feel like I belonged. You gave me a family… we built a family together and" — he sniffed, rubbing at his eyes — "that means so much to me." He grinned, eyes wet with unshed tears. "Go on open it."

She smiled, opening the box. It was an ornament, a baby's first Christmas ornament. Though this one allowed you to put a picture inside. "Oh Steve," she whispered. It was their first family photo, James was five months old and adorable. She forgot who took it — probably Bucky — James was covered in finger paint and so was Steve. She had tried to clean James up, but he had squirmed and gotten paint all over her. Somehow Bucky managed to take a photo of the three of them together, smiling and laughing while covered in finger paint. "This is perfect."

"Thought you may like it." He kissed her forehead. "Merry Christmas Nat."

"Merry Christmas, Steve."

* * *

 **groan**

 **This story took way to long. This chapter too way to long. This was supposed to be done in December. Since it's a Christmas story. But whatever. Enjoy.**

 **I'll now resume working on And We Run.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**


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